


I Spy

by flowersforzoe



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Ava Cornell, Blackmail, CIA, Christopher Cornell, College, Ella Cornell, F/M, James Cornell, John Cornell, Lilia Cornell, MI6, Michelle Cornell, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spies, Struggle, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-07-05 16:36:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15867525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersforzoe/pseuds/flowersforzoe
Summary: Alex makes a new friend in Ella Cornell. Ella is someone who really understands Alex in ways he never would have thought possible...





	1. Acceptance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Welcome to my second Alex Rider Fanfic! My first was called "The Book of Sad." You should definitely go check it out!
> 
> -When I was about 13, I wrote a short story about a teenage girl named Ella Cornell for school. She was based on my love for Alex Rider. Three years later, I realize that I really want Alex and Ella to meet up! So, I wrote a fanfic, naturally. Hit me up with any suggestions, and please leave a review if you like it. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> -TW: Strong language. References to trauma, because Alex.
> 
> -This takes place a few weeks after Never Say Die, and is completely unrelated to my other fic. [You should still read the other fic, though!]
> 
> -Disclaimer: Alex Rider and anything recognizable belongs to Anthony Horowitz. Any OCs (Ella and crew) and some plot are mine. Enjoy!

**Ella:**

Nervous. Anxious, restless, distressed. This is how I feel as the crisp white envelope looks back at me, menacingly. In an attempt to calm down, I practice a breathing technique that my older sister taught me. Spoiler alert, it didn't work. I stare back at the envelope. It stares back, tauntingly. Inside is my future. One piece of paper that will determine the rest of my life, for better or for worse. I shudder.

In the end, my curiosity wins out. I pick up the dagger-shaped letter opener that sits on the desk next to me and use it to slit open the stress-inducing envelope. _It's a hell of a lot cleaner that slitting a throat,_ I think to myself, morbidly. I swallow the ball of saliva building up in the back of my throat. When I unfold the paper, my eyes race to find the sentence that my entire future rides on. I am no longer breathing as I begin to read.

"Ella Cornell,

Congratulations! You have been accepted to Oxford University."

I sigh with relief. _I, Ella Cornell, actually got into Oxford. I can't fucking believe this!_ I stare at the envelope, breathlessly. I am so excited. I have worked so hard to do this for myself. I will be an entire ocean away from my fucked-up family, and I cannot wait. My parents always meant well, but my childhood was in no way normal, and this distance is exactly what I need, a fresh start for my own life.

I race into my brother's room to tell him my good news. I have no idea how the rest of my family will react to this, but I know that Christopher will at least support me.

"Christopher!" I yell when he opens the door, "I got in! I actually got into Oxford!"

He hugs me, tightly. "That's amazing, Ellie, I knew you could do it!" I hug him back, enjoying Christopher's calm before the rest of my family's storm.

When he let's go, he looks me in the eyes, knowingly. "How the hell do you plan on telling everyone else?"

I stare at my shoes, not knowing what to say. I've been in situations much more dangerous and difficult than this one, and yet, I am at a loss. Christopher picks up my chin so I can look him in the face. At only 14-years old, he is 6'0, towering over my 5'6. This is average for my age, 17, but being short has always been advantageous to me. "I have no idea."

I already know that my parents will throw a shitfit. My older siblings joined our "family business," and my mother and father expect me to as well. I've been loosely homeschooled my entire life, and they didn't even know I took the SAT (as well as other tests) and applied to schools around the world. They won't even care that I got in. Rather, they'll be pissed I'm wasting "4 of my prime years" going to college. They will probably be impressed about my sneaking around and keeping things a secret from them, as that is what my family would consider a huge life achievement. College, on the other hand...

I should probably explain. I live in Washington D.C., USA with my parents, John and Michelle Cornell, and my siblings, James(21), Ava(18), Christopher(14), and Lilia(10), and I am the middle child. My parents met at work, fell in love, married, and had a bunch of kids. In and of itself, this is completely normal. However, when you look into our so-called "family business," things get a bit sketchy. While they claim to be "insurance agents" to the rest of the world, they are a much more dangerous type of agent. They are secret agents, or quite simply spies, and they work for the CIA. They've been training us since birth to follow in their footsteps, and James and Ava already did. We've all been on missions as part of their cover, as well as on our own, and we've all seen and done shit that children really shouldn't. I'm truly sick of it. I hate killing and fighting for my life. I want to be normal, which means spending time away from my family. This is why I applied to so many colleges-all outside of the USA. I have the skills and the languages to live and thrive in many other countries, thanks to my unusual upbringing, so I applied to schools in 9 different countries. However, I've been to England numerous times on missions, and the idea of living there has always appealed to me. Anyways, besides English, my mother tongue, I speak Dutch, French, German, Arabic, Spanish, Italian, and Russian, and I'm currently learning Chinese. I have an arsenal of other skills that I'd love to explain, but right now, I'm focusing on how to deliver "bad" news.

"Mom and Dad are going to kill me."

"James and Ava will be slightly more supportive, but they are stuck in the old days of family tradition." Christopher supplied, helpfully. I almost forgot, my family's spying "tradition" has been around since the Revolutionary War, so it's more than just one generation of tradition I'm planning on breaking. "Lili won't say anything, though," Christopher reminds me, referring to Lilia, our youngest sister, "I'd practice on her."

I nod my head, this is logical. "Okay, but you're coming with me to break the news to her."

"This is coming from the girl who once told an evil megalomaniac to suck her dick." Christopher points out, unhelpfully. I cringe at the memory.

When I tell Lilia about Oxford, (she didn't know I applied) she was nothing but excited for me. I kind of don't think she's too keen on the whole "working for the CIA until you're killed in the field" thing. James is. Ava is. Christopher is. Lilia and I are not. We want a life of happiness and freedom, not one of lies and secrecy until we are caught and killed. There's no retiring from spying, and I just hope that I am getting out early enough.

That night, I made dinner for everyone. My parents and older siblings were at HQ for work all day, so I decided to relieve them of the dinner-making stress.

I was just plating chicken parmesan, salad, and pasta when everyone came home from work.

"Thanks, Ella for making dinner," my mother smiles at me. _I am about to break this poor woman's heart_ , I think to myself. I really do love my family, I just hate that I'm being forced into a career of death and violence. I know that they just want what's best for America. This is both noble and patriotic, yet what's best for America is me being a spy, which is not what is best for me.

We sit and eat in silence. No one can exactly talk about their day at work, and Christopher, Lilia, and I spent the day studying languages and practicing karate, a martial art that my entire family, except Lilia, since she's still young, has black belts in.

My stomach feels like a pit. I pick at my food, feeling too nauseous to put any in my mouth.

"You okay, Ella?" Ava asked me, concerned.

My dad glances in my direction. "She's hiding something," he states, plainly. _Damn. I'm a goddamn spy. You think I'd be able to hide something better that. Then again, Dad has been in the business for decades_. "Ella, why are you hiding something."

I swallow hard. I am freaking the fuck out at this point. "Some say hiding, I say 'waiting for the right time to share information.'"

My dad eyes me, suspiciously. "Now is as good a time as any."

 _Come on, girl, you can do this_. I think to myself. "Everyone," I say nervously. I carefully practiced this conversation a million times in my head since I applied, but it all went to hell when I began to speak. I stuttered my words out of sheer anxiety. "I applied to college, to, um, Oxford University in England, and I, uh, got in?"

"And…?" my dad says, urging me on.

"And I want to move to England for college instead of working for the CIA."

I guess I've done the impossible. I surprised four spies that have known me since before I was even born. Except for Christopher and Lilia, my entire family looks shell-shocked. My dad is the first to recover. "And do what, Ella, work for British intelligence? You have connections here, with the CIA, and I'd really prefer you'd stay."

I struggle to respond. "Actually, Dad, I don't want to be a spy. I want to work in a lab."

"Like, an evidence-analyzing lab for HQ?" He asks, referring to the CIA's headquarters. "That's a fine career."

"No, Dad, a microbiology lab studying disease outbreaks. I plan to attend college and grad school in Oxford, then move to Atlanta, Georgia, to work for the CDC*. It's technically still a government job that serves the American people." I add that last part hopefully.

My mom and siblings were rendered speechless. My dad looks stunned. _Dad never looks stunned. What the fuck did I just do to my poor father?_ "But- but- Ella? You are a spy. You come from a family of spies. What about the greater good?"

"Protecting people from infectious diseases IS the greater good," I say sarcastically while rolling my eyes.

"Point," James says, finally finding his voice.

"But Ella," My dad is speaking again, "What about your training? You've always been the best of your siblings."

A series of sarcastic responses erupts from my siblings.

"Wow, thanks, Dad."

"Love you too."

"Good to know that no one is playing favorites."

"If Ella's gone, can I be your favorite?"

"Ella's not going anywhere." My dad says, deciding my future for me.

This pisses me off. It's my freaking life on the line here. "No!" I exclaim, before I can stop myself, "I want my own life. I want freedom, and I don't want to fear for my life during missions for the so-called 'greater good.' I don't want to kill anyone else, no matter how evil they are. I want to go to school in England, and form actual human connections."

"You are meant to be here, in Washington," My dad sighs. While he has decades of experience with disagreements in the field, never has one of his children ever yelled at him.

Wanting to get my way, I just shrug. "I don't see how you can stop me."

"Use your imagination, Ella, I have the entire CIA backing me. There is nowhere in the world you can hide from me." My dad challenged.

"I have connections," I say, nonchalant, "I can change my name, get a new identity, get plastic surgery, and move halfway across the globe. You'll never see me again. Or, you can support me. I can stay Ella Cornell, and we can maintain a positive relationship. I just-" I sigh, "I just can't live in this life full of secrets and lies. It's a trap, and not one I want to die because of."

My dad's head is buried in his hands. My mother is visibly crying. James looks confused, and Ava is deep in thought. Christopher and Lilia sensed awkwardness a while ago and left, but I saw them watching us and listening in from the nearby staircase.

"What did we do wrong?" My mother sobs, "Ella, I love you, please, please stay. If not for your family, for America."

"Mom," I say soothingly, "You did nothing wrong. I'm not leaving you, I'm leaving your career. I've experienced the field, and it's not how I want to spend the rest of my life, and it's not how I want to die. I can still help my country in other ways, without losing my life."

"I have 5 kids, and she, the best spy, wants to quit." I hear my dad mumble.

"I'm sorry, Dad, but I'm going to Oxford in July."

My dad shrugs. "Ella, I don't want to fight you. You can go to Oxford under a few conditions. One, you will have a security guard outside of your dorm at all times. Two, you will continue to go on missions for the CIA until you leave. Three, you'll come back and visit, dammit." _My dad is crying. In my 17 years, I have never seen my dad cry._

I nod my head, knowing that this is my best bet.

"And if you ever miss the business, and I do hope you reconsider, join '6 in England. From what I've heard, they have no qualms about using children to do their dirty work."

"What? '6 uses child agents?" I thought only the CIA was cruel enough to pull that shit.

"Child agent," My dad corrects me, "Just one."

I file away this piece of information. I wonder if we'll ever cross paths, the MI6 child agent and I. Knowing my knack for finding trouble, there is a very good chance.

I say none of this when I look back at my dad. "I love you, Dad."

"I love you too, Ella, and you are always welcome to come back home." I smile. That was a hell of a lot easier than I ever expected.

I can't wait to live in England. It's currently February, so I have only 5 more months in this hellhole.

 _A fresh start will be great_ , I think as I get up to wash my plate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *[Author's note: the CDC is the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. They study disease trends and outbreaks for the US government]
> 
> There is the first chapter! I hoped you enjoyed it! The next one will be in Alex's POV. Should I write it in 1st person like I did with Ella? Or should I stick with Anthony Horowitz's ways and write in 3rd person. Let me know!
> 
> Please, leave a review if you liked it!


	2. From Torture Comes Sarcasm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I realized that I kind of hated the original chapter 2 of this fic, so I decided to completely rewrite it. Oof. Anyways, the ending is totally different than the other version, so definitely reread the new chapter 2.
> 
> Two weeks later, here is chapter two! The updates are going to be pretty inconsistant, because school, but I'll try my best to update
> 
> Welcome back! This next chapter is in Alex Rider's POV. I decided to write in in third person to keep the Horowitz's story consistent. It might be weird, having Ella in first person, alternating with Alex in third person, but what the hell is fanfiction if not experimental. Let me know what you think by leaving a review!
> 
> TW: Mentions of torture, but only the aftermath of it. No active torture. [Just assume that every chapter from here on out has a warning for strong language. It is too redundant to repeat every single chapter.]
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: If only Alex were mine...at least I have Ella, though.

**Alex:**

Alex awoke, slowly and painfully. His eyes felt sticky, and as he opened them, he realized that he was unable to move.  _Where the hell am I?_  Alex thought before memories of torture and terror from the night before came flooding back. As he became increasingly more conscious, Alex began to feel as though he has been hit by a train, both physically and emotionally. Tied to a table by his arms and legs, Alex remembered where he was with horror.

_South America. Paraguay. Deep in the Jungle. Tied to a shoddy operating table, tortured for information I am unwilling to divulge._

The mission went to hell yesterday when Alex was caught as a mole for a drug lord named Armando Gutierrez. Gutierrez produces a dangerous drug, known as scopolamine*. While many drugs are dangerous, scopolamine is considered one of the most. When under the influence, users are totally under the control of others. Wearing gloves, evil people will blow some into a civilian's face, and will often have the innocent person give them money or secrets. MI6 wants to shut down Gutierrez's operation as a matter of public safety. Alex was sent undercover to be one of Gutierrez's security guards and was told to look for a way to destroy to destroy the drug syndicate. However, he was caught snooping around and asking a few too many questions and was interrogated for hours last night...

 _Holy fucking shit!_  Alex realizes,  _My captors promised to return this morning with Scopolamine to get the truth out. This is not bloody good. There are many secrets I have that I do not want out. I have to get the hell out of here._

Alex takes in his surroundings. It's a small, square room with the operating table he's tied to in the middle. Next to him is a table containing a tray full of scalpels. Alex winces at the sight of them, remembering the deep cuts across his legs. No other humans are in the room, thankfully.

 _Now, just to escape before these creepy-ass interrogation bastards return with their creepy-ass truth serum drug. If only I could just reach a scalpel._  However, they are too far away for Alex to grab with his mouth. He lies back, catching his breath. Alex's face throbs. The spy was hit and punched repeatedly, in an attempt to get him to tell the truth about his identity. He catalogs his other injuries. Swollen face, cut up legs, sore stomach from being punched, bruises on his wrists and ankles where he's being tied up, and three broken fingers on his left hand. The fingers were broken in an attempt for Alex to give away his identity. After they broke three fingers by repeatedly smashing them with the butt of a gun and Alex still wasn't speaking, he was rewarded with the promise of them returning tomorrow with Scopolamine, and a brick thrown at his head, effectively knocking the young spy out.

Alex lays here, the next morning, with a pounding headache, impending doom, and no obvious way to escape it.

The room was windowless, so he has no idea what time it is. It could be three a.m., it could be eleven a.m. All Alex knows is that he needs to get the fuck out of this hellhole, and fast.

The spy's hands and feet were tied under the table with ropes, and he had fuck-all of an idea on how to escape them.

In the end, because the table was merely resting on top of the ground rather than bolted to it, Alex decided to tip it over by thrashing and rocking his body. He lands, painfully, on the slab of concrete that is the floor on his left knee, adding another bruise to the young spy's ever-growing collection.

Luckily for Alex, the table legs were collapsible, and the legs on the front of the table, nearest his arms collapsed. He managed to slide his arms out from under the table. At this point, Alex was awkwardly balancing on his left calf. His arms were against his back, still tied together. The spy's ankles, however, were still tied behind the table. The edges of the table weren't padded like a typical operating table. Rather, it was just a wooden plank, so the boy rubbed the rope that tied his wrists together against the side until it eventually fell away.

With free hands and a newfound strength, Alex is able to grab a scalpel with his right hand and cut away the rope that tied his ankles togeher. The spy winces as he accidentally nicks his ankle in the process. Free at last, Alex stands up quickly.  _Bad idea,_  he quickly realizes. The young spy lost a lot of blood and is feeling lightheaded. He sits back down, trying to fully regain his consciousness.

Sitting on the cold concrete floor and short of breath, Alex decides to leave a message for the fuckers that tortured him. Using the scalpel, he carves something into the wood of the table.

_"Fuck you. You've just been beaten by a teenager._

_-AR"_

The young spy doesn't care that he's left his initials. With any luck, he'll be far away before he's even discovered missing.

Luckily for Alex, his idiot captors didn't bother locking the door, so the spy slipped out easily. By the looks of the sun, it is about 7 in the morning. Alex scales a fence, painfully, as three of his fingers are bent of shape and shattered. Alex makes his way back to the guards' living quarters and climbs up the side of the building into his room. He locks the window and turns on the light, silently praying that his MI6 communications device hasn't been confiscated. Thankfully, it hadn't. It was similar to the watch that Smithers had given him in Thailand, but this time, Smithers had made the device solar charged, rather than battery operated after the Ash clusterfuck in Australia. The spy contacts his employers and begins assessing his injuries. Most of the cuts on the teenager's legs are superficial and will be okay. The boy's fingers, however, are a bloody mess. On his left hand, the pinkie, ring, and middle fingers are purple, bruised, and bent in a way that fingers should not be bent. Alex's head is throbbing from the brick, and his face hurts from the constant beating. Alex wants to leave his room to meet MI6, but fears being seen and recaptured. Scopolamine is the absolute last thing that Alex Rider needs in his life right now.

For once, MI6 is true to their words. A few SAS teams are sent in, and Gutierrez and his lackeys are captured. The scopolamine is collected by the agency. The compound is set on fire. Alex, however, witnesses none of this, as the teenager is fast asleep against his bedroom door.

Eventually, the spy is woken up by a loud knock at the door.

"Agent Rider! Open up! It's Ben Daniels." Alex recognizes the voice as his MI6 colleague and opens the door. "How the hell did you sleep through that bloody battle? Jesus, Alex, you look like you've fallen out of a plane."

"Well, I feel just perfect." The spy retorts. He was in a very sarcastic mood after being tortured all night.

"Well, come on then, Alex, there's a helicopter on the roof."

"Where are we going?"

"London," He says as if Alex were stupid.

Because he was in such a deadpan mood, the spy holds his fucked up fingers up in front of Ben's face. "How about a hospital?"

Ben groans. "How the hell? Nevermind. Hospital it is."

7 hours, 48 stitches, three set-fingers, an arm cast, and one concussion later, Alex is released from Central Hospital in Asunción, Paraguay, and boards a private plane back to London with Ben.

"Jesus fuck, Alex, how did you manage to do this to yourself?" Ben questions.

The teenager ignores him, not wanting to explain himself. "If I'd wanted to be interrogated, I'd have stayed here, Agent Daniels," Alex says, feeling oddly formal. The spy decides to ignore him for the rest of the 16-hour flight to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

When they arrive at Heathrow, a car takes Ben and Alex to the latter's favorite place in London: Liverpool Street.  _I guess being tortured and alone in the middle of the fucking jungle does make me extra sarcastic._  Alex thought to himself.

The two agents walk inside of the Royal and General Bank, only to be greeted by the ever lovely face of the Head of MI6 Special Operations in her office.

"Mrs. Jones," Ben says politely

"Tulip." Alex greets, desperately not wanting to be there. The young spy was pissed at her for sending him to that sweaty-ass jungle hellhole.

"How was Paraguay, Alex?" She asks, ignoring the agent's rudeness.

"It was amazing. If you like being shot at, tortured, and threatened with some creepy-ass mind-controlling drug." He replies, bitterly. "Why did you send me anyways? Couldn't you have just sent in the local law enforcement?"

"In Paraguay, Armando Gutierrez  _was_  local law enforcement," she shrugs, "Besides, you know exactly why I sent you. You were being destructive and had to learn a lesson." Alex's mind flicks back to an incident involving gasoline, a pile of Ben's paperwork, and a light match.

"It was Ben who suggested it!" The younger agent protests, calling his colleague out on is bullshit.

"That may well be true, but who came back reeking of gasoline and singed hair?" She asks. Alex's hand instinctively goes to feel his bangs, which have yet to grow back. Mrs. Jones sighs. "Dismissed, agents. I expect a full written report on my desk in three days."

"But Mrs. Jones," Alex protests both innocently and dramatically, "My fingers are broken. How can I possibly type out a report?"

She just rolls her eyes at the protesting spy. "You are Alex Rider. You once managed to escape from Point Blanc Academy at the top of the Alps with nothing but a ski suit and an ironing board. You can do anything." Ben's eyes widen, remembering this story from Wolf, his unit-mate.

"Yeah, who's fault is that?" he challenges, bitterly, "If only you'd have sent back up…"

"Three days, Agent Rider," She says, dismissively, "And do stay away from any gasoline."

Alex rolls his eyes as he quickly and quietly leaves the room. All the teenage spy wants is dinner; a nap; and a long, hot shower.

* * *

 

The young spy returns to Jack sleeping on the couch, resting her head on a man's lap, in front of the tv, which is showing one of her favorite romances.

"Who in the fuck are you?" Alex is instantly in "spy-mode." His eyes quickly scan the living room of the Chelsea house that once belonged to his late uncle for any threats. He gracefully stalks over to the couch, feet not making a sound, and gently moves his housekeeper off of the man's leg, and feels for her pulse, never taking his eyes off of the stranger.

He releases a breath he hadn't even known he was holding, feeling relieved that Jack was alive. In a second, he has the man pinned against the wall in a chokehold. "I said who are you?" The teen challenges, his voice as cold and as smooth as ice.

The man looks terrified. He begins to yell, struggling to get free. This only makes Alex increase the strength of his vice-like grip.

The struggle wakes up a very confused Jack. "Alex? You're back? What the hell are you doing to Noah?" She demands, finally putting a name on Alex's hostage's face.

"Who the hell is Noah? Why is he here? In our house?" The spy growls.

"Jesus, Alex, what the hell? Not everyone is a damn threat. The man you currently have pinned to our living room wall is Noah Pinkman,** my new boyfriend!"

"Boyfriend!?" Alex exclaims, increasing his grip on Noah's neck. Looking the man in the eyes, he demands "What are your intentions with my guardian?"

"Not to be strangled by her ward?" Noah chokes out.

Alex scoffs and rolls his eyes, clearly not amused. "Jack. A word," he says, turning to his housekeeper, still holding the man against the wall by his neck.

"Wow, Alex, I'm so sorry that I want some freaking company while you're traveling for your work in the  _Peace Corps_." Jack deadpans. Alex is impressed by her newfound ability to lie.

 _Guess she learned from the best_ , he thinks, allowing himself a small smile. Only Jack notices the slight change in his usual cold and emotionless demeanor. She decides to capitalize on the drop of his guard.

"Alex, please, let him go. I really like him," she pleads, "besides, he's so much cuter than the last one." She stage-whispers the last part, jokingly.

Laughing, Alex lets the man go, and immediately after his release, he crumples to the floor.

"I'm sorry about that, Noah, Alex is always on guard, due to his Peace Corps missions, which are usually in dangerous places," Jack says, lying through her teeth.

"Yeah, sorry, man," Alex mutters, unapologetically. His features quickly turn to stone as he looks the man straight in the eyes. "If you ever hurt Jack, I will castrate you with a pair of fucking scissors." He growls.

Noah nods. "Yes, sir." Jack tries unsuccessfully to hide the smile threatening her lips, partly because it was funny seeing Alex this protective of her, partly because of Noah's terrified reaction, and partly because of the relief that she would never be on the wrong side of Alex's protective/assassin side.

"Right then. I'm going to bed. The, uh, Peace Corps mission was exhausting. See you around, mate?" Alex addresses Noah.

He responds with a nod.

Jack follows Alex to his room, wanting to speak with him before he goes to sleep. His bedroom door is half-open, and she catches her ward without a shirt on. "Jesus, Alex, what the hell happened to you?"

"The peace corps mission was  _pure torture_ ," Alex says, quite obviously hinting at the reason behind his many cuts and broken fingers.

"Oh my god. Are you okay?"

"Fine," he winces as his shirt gets caught on a stitch. "You should go back to Noah. I have a report to write for Tulip." He spits out the name of his "employer."

Knowing Alex won't talk while Noah is here, Jack sighs and begins walking out of the spy's bedroom.

"Wait, Jack," Alex's housekeeper stops in her tracks, "Noah doesn't know about anything does he?"

"Of course not," Jack assures him, "I would never tell anyone without your consent."

Alex nods, accepting this. He hugs Jack goodnight and gets into bed.

Alex is unable to sleep. Visions of demons, torture, evil boyfriends, and scopolamine cloud his head.  _I_ t's going to be a long night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love protective Alex. His character is honestly so fun to write, because I can just be the sarcastic asshole I am in real life, and nobody questions it, since it's totally in character.
> 
> *Scopolamine is a real drug. It's terrifying. Look it up.
> 
> **Hehe, Noah's last name is from Breaking Bad...love Jesse Pinkman...
> 
> Sorry that was full of fluff. It will pick up soon. Leave a comment to let me know your thoughts so far!


	3. Rocky Relations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Welcome back, friends! If you didn't know, I rewrote chapter 2, so it's less fluffy and more relevant, and if you haven't met Noah Pinkman yet, you should definitely go back and read chapter 2. The former birthday scene was dumb and completely irrelevant.
> 
> This fic is going to take place present-day, 2018. Horowitz has a confusing-ass timeline, and I was a smol bean back in like 2005 when this fic should chronologically be taking place, so it would be hard to research the technology back then. Basically, because Ben Daniels=Wolf, then I can have my fanfic in whatever year I want.
> 
> Just so you know, Alex had just turned 18 in his first chapter, which takes place in March, and Ella is 17 in her chapter, but turned 18 in April, so she will be 18 in this chapter, which takes place in May.
> 
> That was probably confusing, but here is a quick timeline:
> 
> February 13th, 2018: Alex turns 18
> 
> Late February 2018: Ella's first chapter
> 
> Mid-March 2018: Alex's first chapter
> 
> April 17th: Ella turns 18
> 
> Late May: Chapter 3, Ella's second chapter
> 
> Anyways, that was a long-ass author's note, and I'll try to make them shorter from now on, but I just wanted to clear a few things up.
> 
> Disclaimer: If I had the rights to Alex Rider, I wouldn't be typing a rambling message on my shitty laptop, planning how he will meet a figment of my imagination.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. There are two puns in this chapter that relate to the title! Let's see who our rock enthusiasts are! Comment if you figure it out!

**Ella:**

Something hits me in the side of my head. Then again, but this time, it hits me in my right eye. I open up my left eye, the one that isn't currently throbbing. "What the hell was that?" I demand. A young child with short red hair wearing a tuxedo is throwing rocks at my head. The little boy shrugs. My mind races for a second, before I recognize him as Luca, the six-year-old son of Fabio Brandenberger, the Swiss arms dealer I've been spying on.

I take in the scene. I am handcuffed to the leg of a cold metal bench in the back of a moving truck, which I am currently laying down on. My heads throbs, partly because of the stones that Luca had hurled at it, and partly because I'd been drugged. I've been drugged unconscious dozens of times, but the morning after still feels every bit as horrible. Anyways, I'm wearing the same black jeans and t-shirt I was wearing the night before, but with one major difference: now, they were covered in blood. I wasn't positive, but I had a pretty good guess as to who it belonged to after tasting the blood crusted on my chin and upper lip. Across from me is Luca Brandenberger, the little shit who was hurling rocks at my head. The back of the truck is light only by a flashlight, which Luca had sat next to him, before deciding it would be more fun to throw it at my teeth.  _Creepy, sadistic, little bastard,_  I thought to myself,  _He's just like his father._

_Luca's Father. Oh. Shit. Fucking asshole, dickbag, piece of shit._ Memories come rushing back to me. I was undercover with James, my older brother, as investors in Fabio Brandenberger's highly illegal arms trade. Fabio is a part of a terrorist organization, called Onyx, which specializes in the illegal transportation of many wonderful things, from drugs, to weapons, to poisons, to slaves, to counterfeit money. Basically, Onyx formed in the remnants of Scorpia and is a one-stop-shop for the transport and purchase of anything illegal.

Anyways, James and I were staying at Brandenberger's estate, gathering intel on his business, pretending to be investors. This ended abruptly when I was identified by one of Brandenberger's guards, and our cover was blown. James was able to escape, but I was knocked out and thrown into the back of this truck. Realization quickly dawned on me. In all my glory, I had completely forgotten where we were going. A phrase that I use much more often than any 18-year-old should surfaced in my brain.  _How in the fuck did I get myself into this mess?_

* * *

My dad practically dragged me into the office of Joe Byrne. I did not want to go. He forced me into a chair next to him, across from a faintly amused Joe Byrne.

"Good morning Agent Cornell," the spymaster greets my father, "Agent Ella, long time, no see. It's been since-"

"Senegal," I growl, not wanting to relive  _that_  shitstorm. I feel a little bit bad for yelling at Byrne, the man is practically my grandfather, but his role in my life, sending me out on downright suicidal missions, is really pissing me off right now.

"Right," he clears his throat, "Anyways, since you're leaving us at the end of July, permanently, I have one more mission for you. It's nothing too difficult, you and Agent James will be together the whole time."

"Wow. Family bonding. Isn't that just delightful?" I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

"You teenagers and your sarcasm," Byrne chuckles, "Anyways, you've heard of Onyx, the international terrorist group. You went on a mission last year trying to stop the transportation of nerve-gas into Cambodia last year—-"

"Trying? I kicked  _ass_. The civilians weren't poisoned, and no one even found out my cover," I smirked, lifting up my feet and resting them on top of Byrne's desk. My dad glared at me, but I ignored him, focusing on the man whose desk my feet were on. "So," I yawned, "What do you want?"

"Well," Byrne said, his face getting stone-cold serious, "I want you and Agent James to investigate a Swiss man named Fabio Brandenberger. He specializes in the transportation of illegal weapons. Everything from ghost guns, to nuclear bombs. He has strong ties to Onyx, and we have received intel that he is shipping illegal, military-grade weapons to the Middle East. I want you to investigate him, under the aliases of investors in his 'business,' and see if you can give me a time and place. Don't worry, it will be a simple job for you, Agent Ella." Been assured me.

How many times have I heard that one before? " _Oh, Ella, it's just a simple job," "Ella, it's hardly worth your talent and skill set." "It won't be hard, just a simple security detail."_  Ugh. I am fucking sick of being lied to by the CIA.

"No," I say, obstinately. There is no  _way_  I'm willingly putting myself between the Middle East, and a big-ass bomb.

"Ella," my father pleads, "Honey, this is the last thing I will ever ask you to do. Just one more mission before you leave this life behind forever?"

"No," I repeat, standing my ground. This just sounds like a fucking trap if I've ever heard one, and believe me, I have.

"Ella, we had a deal," my father growls, "If you want to go to Oxford in July, you have to go on missions until you leave."

"I'm an adult now, all that 'listen to your father' bullshit isn't going to work. Besides, it was a verbal agreement, there was nothing written down or legally binding." I know what I promised my dad, but I am so fucking over the CIA and my own family manipulating me, that I couldn't give less of a shit.

"Ella, you're the best agent of your siblings, by far," my dad said, expecting flattery to work, "It breaks my heart that you are the only one who hates this life."  _Only sibling who hates this life, my ass. Has he met Lilia?_  "This is bigger than your grudge with the CIA, or even me. We have a ton of enemies in the Middle East. This is for America, Ella, don't be selfish—-"

"You're telling me not to be selfish!?" I exploded, "Remind me who dragged their 5-year-old daughter on her first mission with them to a war zone? Remind me who sent their 10-year-old-daughter on her first solo mission to a child sex slavery ring? I have put up with your manipulation and forced-missions for years, Dad. When I say no, it's not selfish, it's self-preservational, which is a skill you taught me."

My father lowered his voice. "But...Ella...what about the greater good?" He asked, legitimately astonished as to why I'm turning down his and Byrne's "offer."

"What exactly is the greater good?" I asked keeping my voice level, "and why do I have to save it all the damn time?"

My dad groaned, exasperated, putting his head in his hands and his elbows on Byrne's desk, right next to my outstretched legs. "Because, Ella," he began, using more emotion than I've ever seen him portray, "You have such a talent for field work like this. Your siblings are competent, I guess, but you….you are amazing. You take after me in that way, and I can't stand to see a talent like yours go to waste because of your damn stubbornness. Please, Ella, just this last mission, I promise. This is important to me."

My heart swelled up with pride. My father is the best the CIA has ever had, and for him to compliment me like that? I know, it sounds super hypocritical of me to be proud of skills that I wish to leave behind forever, but my father is not an emotional person, and he's never so much as said "good job, Ella," to me before. After years of impossible training, before today, all I ever got was a nod or an "acceptable." I don't know, it's weird, but I respect my dad more than anyone. The man is a legend in fieldwork, and he says that I take after him.

I tried not to let tears fall down my face and break my emotionless barrier, but I couldn't help myself. I swung my legs off of Byrne's desk and stood up to hug my dad. "Thank you," I said, putting more meaning into those two words than I thought was possible.

"So, you'll do it?" Byrne asked, lifting an eyebrow. I nod, and Byrne hands me a file to study. "Thank you, Agent Ella."

I dismissed myself, closing Byrne's office door behind me. I hear Byrne's voice again, so I linger on the other side, trying to listen in. I was laying on my stomach on the floor, my left ear between the bottom of the door and the carpet below.

"...you really meant...about Ella's skills?"

My dad chuckles. "Emotional manipulation,"  _Fucking bastard! I fell for the oldest goddamn trick in the book. Flattery. Pfff. Damn my desire for praise. If I'm that foolish in the field, I deserve to be blown up by a Swiss bomb. I-_ My internal ranting was cut off when my dad started speaking again.

His voice lowered, but I could still here most of it. "Honestly…she's the best...siblings...can't compare to her sheer talent...field work...breaks my heart...she hates this life...Ella...so goddamn good at her job." The warm and fuzzy feeling returned. I was glad to have my dad's praise. It gave me a new confidence and will to go on this mission…

...which is something I still had now.

* * *

Back to the present, Fabio Brandenberger had a bomb. And I'm not talking about a couple pounds of plastic explosive. He had an atomic bomb, and he was selling it to a radical terrorist group in Iraq, who was planning to blow up the entire nation of Israel. Because that asshole of a guard recognized me from my other mission against Onyx in Cambodia, he told Brandenberger my true identity, and to put it bluntly, I'm fucked in the ass. He said I'm a dirty American spy, and that spies who are caught get handcuffed to atomic bombs, so I'm really looking forward to being fucking  _vaporized_.

I have no idea how to get out of this. I could probably pick the lock on my handcuffs with pieces of the flashlight, but Brandenberger's bratty son, Luca, is watching me like a hawk. I think to the gadgets that I came with, hoping, praying, that this wasn't a lost cause. On my right hand is my silver ring, that I have worn forever. It is a bunch of small flowers connected into a circle, and it's really beautiful. However, it has another function which, in this situation, is even more beautiful. When you swipe left along the surface of the ring, the outer flower coating turns into a diamond edged blade, that covers about half of the ring's surface. When you swipe right on the surface, the blade goes away, turning back into a ring. The best part is, is that it's fingerprint-sensitive, and my ring has never been confiscated, as no one realizes it's true function.

I swipe left, cutting the handcuff off of my right hand. Luca notices this, but before he can say anything, I knock him out, with a swift kick to the side of the head. I'm not too keen on the idea of knocking out a six-year-old, no matter how much of a fucking sadist he is, but this is life or death for not only me, but all of Israel, and many other neighboring countries.

Using my belt, I strap Luca to the metal bench I once lied down on. I feel for this kid, and I don't want him to get hurt in the next stage of my plan. Gripping Luca's flashlight between my teeth, I get to work.

Unfortunately, all of my other gadgets are stripped away, so I am forced into my most dangerous idea of escape. Swiping left on my ring, I cut a human-sized hole into the back door of the moving van. The wind is rushing all around me, and I am ripped out of the truck and into the darkness.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger!
> 
> Sorry for the short chapter, but I wanted to give you another update, because my schedule is about to get insane, and I have no idea when I'll be able to update again. Hopefully soon, because I have no shortage of ideas…
> 
> Also: This chapter is called "Rocky Relations" for two reasons:
> 
> It opens with Luca Brandenberger hurling rocks at Ella's head.
> 
> Onyx, the name of the terrorist group, is also the name of a mineral. I hope you appreciated the rock humor! Leave a review, even if it's just to yell at me for making bad puns!


	4. Perfect Russian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm back with chapter 4! I'm writing this instead of an essay for English, so that's a bit of an oof. Too bad writing about what and how narratives signify isn't nearly as thrilling as writing fanfiction.
> 
> So this chapter is really short, because writer's block, but I have a plan for most of the rest of this fic, which is good. Alex and Ella will meet in chapter 7 just so you know. The chapters from here on out will be longer, I promise.
> 
> Also, I just realized that Ella's younger brother, Christopher Cornell, has the exact same name as Chris Cornell, the lead singer of the band Soundgarden. This was totally accidental, as I named this character like 3 years ago, which was before I'd even heard of him. (Also, Chris Cornell, the musician, has the middle name 'John,' which also happens to be Ella's father's name. Oof.) So anyway, this is a happy accident, because Soundgarden is a great band, and you should definitely go listen to them! [This totally sounds like a paid advertisement, and I swear to god it's not.]
> 
> Anyways, enjoy Alex's second chapter!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Alex Rider, or Soundgarden, unfortunately...

 

**Alex:**

Three days later, Alex strides into the Royal and General bank, rolling his eyes at the security measure. When he arrives on the 15th floor, he barges into the office of an unamused Tulip Jones.

"Tulip," Alex greets, smirk on his face.

"Alex," the woman groans, "What have I told you about knocking on my office door?"

"That I only have to disregard the privacy of people who send me on suicidal missions?" He says, jokingly raising an eyebrow. Mrs. Jones sighs, unable to respond. "Anyways, I have that mission report you asked me for. It's on time, too." Alex puts a red folder on the Head of MI6 Special Operation's desk.

The woman lifts an eyebrow, curious as to how she got Alex to turn it in so easily. Her suspicions are confirmed when she cracks open the folder, revealing a twelve-page mission report, written in perfect...Russian.

"Really, Alex?" She asked, exasperated, "You had to make my life more difficult?"

"S'not my fault you didn't specify the language, Tulip," Alex says, as innocently as he can manage.

Tulip groans, not for the first time during her meeting with MI6's youngest spy. "Anyways, Alex, I want to talk to you about your position here. Congratulations, by the way, on graduating from Brookland, I'm sure that was no easy feat-"

"Yeah, what with all the school your forced me to miss." He replies, sarcastically.

"Yes, well," Mrs. Jones coughs, "I noticed that you will be attending Imperial College in London this fall. What with all the school you've missed, it's almost shocking you were accepted into any college, let alone such a good one. Well," she concludes, "you are lucky to have friends in high places."

"You blackmailed a university into letting me in?" Alex asks, incredulously.

"Why, have you got a problem with that?" Mrs. Jones challenges.

"Nope," Alex smirks, "I'm just happy you're finally using that power in my favor."

"Anyways, since we at MI6 have been so kind as to get you accepted into university-"

Alex cuts her off, "How about I risk my life on dozens of suicidal missions against my will from ages 14 to 18?"

"I'm offering you a job, Alex, a paid job. The same one your father had, the same one your Uncle Ian had, an MI6 field agent."

"And what will you be payung me for my services?" He asks, raising an eyebrow, "Wait. Actually, nevermind, I don't care. Whatever it is, triple it, and add on college tuition, and we have a deal."

"I'm surprised you agreed so quickly," Mrs, Jones replies, clearly suspicious of the agent standing in front of her.

"Well, the way I figure it, I'll be going on the missions either way, and I'd rather be paid than blackmailed."

Mrs. Jones nods, accepting this. "Very well then. You'll work here from 8-7 on days you don't have class, and days you do, we can work around."

Alex nods.  _When did I suddenly become so complacent around Tulip?_ He thought to himself, _Damn, MI6 really have a strong grip around me. I barely even put up a fight before my last mission. I guess I've really been conditioned to blackmail…_

"Have you been feeling alright lately, Alex?" Mrs. Jones asks the agent.

"Yeah, twelve straight hours of torture earlier this week has me feeling brilliant." He mumbled, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"No, not physically. The doctor said you'll be fine once your fingers and lacerations heal. I mean psychologically. Lately, you've just seemed...numb. You've lost your spunk. It's almost as though you've been conditioned to violence, and nothing even fazes you anymore," The woman said, looking concerned.

_Creepy_ , Alex thought,  _It's like she's reading my mind_. "Yeah. I wonder who's fault that is." He replies, almost bitterly.

"You're really turning into one of us. Stone-cold, emotionless, hiding behind a psychological barrier of your own creation. You scare people, Alex, you shut them out. I'm worried that because you're so isolated and different from everyone, you'll never form a real human connection again. We could talk if you wanted."

Nothing sounded worse to the teenage spy than spilling his guts to Tulip Jones. "I'm alright," he mumbles, getting up to leave.

"Actually, Alex, it would be great for you and me to talk things out. How about every Thursday at 3:00?" Mrs. Jones asked him. Well, it was more a demand than a question. "Yes. This is perfect. I'll see you tomorrow!"

Alex groaned.  _This is a cursed office_ , Alex thought to himself,  _Every time I step inside, shit hits the fucking fan._


	5. Agent 4-6-7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will be much longer than the last. Alex's last chapter was really short, but his next will be longer.
> 
> Side note: I really need to stop procrastinating on homework and responsibilities just to write fanfiction.
> 
> Leave a review! I'd love to hear any feedback or criticism you have for me to improve my writing!
> 
> Disclaimer: If I owned Alex Rider, writing about him would be a life responsibility. Welp. I can only dream...
> 
> [Other languages, as well as thoughts, are italicized, Macha is pronounced as mock-uh]

**Ella:**

I land on a dirt road in a heap of arms and legs. "Shit!" I exclaim when I realize that I never swiped right on my ring, and the blade just cut down the side of my face as I tumbled out of the truck. I quickly swipe left to prevent further self-inflicted injury. _Come on Ella, you can do this, girl. You just have to stand up, and get to a phone. You can do this. Get up. Find phone. Call for backup. You have to stop Fabio Brandenberger and his-_

* * *

I wake up, sometime later, in a bed. My eyes sting at the bright lights. A young woman with bright blue eyes and an older woman with curly, gray hair are staring me down. "Where am I?" I exclaim, panicked about both my current whereabouts, as well as the future of Israel, "What time is it?"

"Shhhh, sweetie," The older woman says, soothingly, "I'm Doctor Gina Phillips, and you are in the hospital. You suffered a nasty fall, and you have a cut on your face that we stitched up. We still need to test, but you may even have a concussion. Oh, and it's 5 in the morning."

My head swam. "I need a phone. I need to call someone. It's really important."

"Don't worry, we can call your family for you. I never caught your name, by the way," The doctor replied sweetly. However, I have no time for kindness. Sis has a bomb to stop, and a country to save.

"My name isn't important. This phone call, however, is. Please. Just let me borrow a phone," I insist, "Also, who is that over there?" I ask, gesturing towards the blue-eyed woman in the corner of the room.

"My name is Lisa. I'm the one that found you and brought you in," She replied, smiling at me. I nod, in thanks.

At this point, I am sick of this 'sweetie' crap. I have shit to accomplish. "Please. Let me call my people. This extremely important," I say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. It's not easy.

"I'm sorry, but it's against policy. I can call your parents for you," The doctor says, condescendingly.

I try a different approach. I may be 18-years-old, but I can still play 'little girl lost' as well as ever. Tears stream down my face. My voice shifts into a slight, yet noticeable Russian accent. "Please, my parents, they don't speak English. They won't understand. I have to speak to them. I don't suppose you speak Russian?" I ask, purposefully choosing a language that few people in Switzerland speak.

The doctor looks startled. "Oh...Of course...I could try to find a translator, but-"

"But it'd be easier for me to call myself. I need medical attention, and fast what with my having a concussion." I cut her off.  _I am playing this woman like a violin. I have her wrapped around my (bruised) finger._

She hands me her cell phone, and I thank her, profusely. "By the way, we are in Spital Davos AG, in Davos, Switzerland." I nod and I call my dad at CIA HQ. Speaking rapid-fire Russian, I quickly outline my problem.

_"Papa. I need your help. I'm in the hospital, and I need to get out. Brandenberger is driving a bomb into Iraq. They plan to blow up the whole of Israel. I'm in Switzerland right now, but the bomb is probably farther south. I left my belt tracker in the truck that was carrying it. I need backup, and I need to get out of this hospital. The hospital is called Spital Davos AG, and I'm in Davos, Switzerland."_

My dad swore in a litany of languages, some of which even I didn't recognize.  _"Ella, you're going to have to escape the hospital, probably by sneaking out. You don't have proper ID to release yourself, and I don't want anything incriminating on your medical record. Make sure you're okay and get out as soon as you can. I am tracking the van as we speak. I have teams stationed all over Switzerland, Europe, and the Middle East. I'll send one team to pick you up, and another three to intercept the bomb. Your team will meet up with the other three, and you will fly to France, via helicopters. The team will be out front in 30 minutes. Good luck, and Godspeed."_  He hangs up.

 _"Goodbye, Papa, see you then,"_  I say into the phone, in order to keep my cover. I quickly delete the phone number from the doctor's phone, so nobody tries to track it. Not that they'll find anything incriminating, but I don't want to raise suspicions.

"Thank you, doctor," I say, turning my attention to the woman. She looks puzzled. That's understandable, I guess. "My father. He will be here in one hour to take me home. He said no more hospital care."

"Are you sure?" She asks, looking legitimately concerned for my health and well-being. I nod my head. "I really do want to check you out for a concussion. It seems you may have hit your head. Do you remember what happened leading up to the accident?" I suppress a shudder.  _Vividly_ , I think to myself.

"I'm okay," I assure her, getting out of the bed, "Where is the bathroom?" She points at a door to my left, wordlessly.

I get to the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I look around the room. Mercifully, there is a window. I stick my head out and examine the ground below. Making my way back to the front of the room, I turn on the faucet in an attempt to drown out the noise I am about to make. Looking in the mirror, I realize how badly my ring cut up my face. There is a deep, stitched-up cut sprawling from my temple to my cheekbone.  _Damn. I hope it doesn't scar too badly._  But it will. It always does. I pee quickly and wash my hands and ring, preparing for the long day ahead of me. With a sigh, I open up the window, and swinging my legs over the window sill, I hurl myself out.

* * *

I land in a deep crouch on a fire escape, about a story below. I'm 4 floors up, which is too far to jump, so I run down three stories, before recklessly throwing myself off of the railing. I tuck and roll, doing a somersault as I land, so as not to further injure myself. I stand up and brush myself off. The hospital must have put me on a painkiller of some type, as I am feeling a lot better, though slightly loopy. This could, however also be my maybe-concussion. However, I've been concussed before, and this doesn't feel like one.

I check my surroundings. Thankfully, there are no witnesses to the stunt I just pulled. I realize that I'm at the back of the hospital, and begin making my way to the front by stepping through the shadows.

* * *

It's great that it's only 5a.m. because there is no one around. By the time I reach the front of the hospital, my team of soldiers/ride home is waiting for me.

"Agent 4-6-7, how nice to see you. My name is Shumway, " A young male soldier with close-cropped black hair greets me, "Your boss wanted me to tell you that you're  _going_  to need some good _luck_ to pull this off. I nod, acknowledging his code, and get in the car.

The reason Shumway used the words "going" and "luck" in his code to signal that he is who he claims to be, is because of a code that my dad and I created years ago. I am my dad's third child, so the code words are the third and third-to-last words of our last conversation. Whenever he needs someone to pick me up, he always has them use whichever words those happened to be. It's kind of like how parents and their children come up with 'secret phrases' so they know when it's safe for the children to be picked up my other adults, yet much more high-stakes.

I'm sitting in the back seat, next to Shumway and a young Japanese woman, who introduced herself as Fletcher. In the front are two other agents, Carlson, a tall black man, and the driver, Macha, a leggy Brazilian woman with long caramel hair. "Agent 4-6-7," I greet the team with a smirk. Everyone's (except Shumway, who already knew my identity) eyes widen. I guess I'm a bit of a legend around the CIA.

"Jesus,  _you're_ , 4-6-7?" Fletcher asked, "You're so goddamn young."

"You have a 100% mission success rate," Macha said in awe, "You've been on over two dozen mission. I guess I expected you to be a little older…"

"In this world, age doesn't matter," I say, flippantly, "It's all about skill." A pause. "And as wonderful as I may be," I say dramatically, "My name's not Jesus." I joke. The other agents in the car laugh.

"Damn, she's funny too," Carlson laughs, "What can't you do, 4-6-7?"

"Read into the future," I say, "So, I want to know if we are going to intercept those Swiss bastards and their bomb, or if we are going home."

"We're going to help Mr. Cornell's other three teams intercept the bomb. He said they might need the help- Shumway answers.

"And my knowledge and experience." I cut him off.

"That's exactly what Mr. Cornell said," Shumway says, eyeing him suspiciously, "He's the top man in the agency after Mr. Byrne himself. Do you know him?"

I laugh. It's honestly hilarious to me that people only know me as 'the legend of Agent 4-6-7.' My "job" is so far under the table that my file gives away no age, no family relations, and no physical descriptions, not even my gender. It's because of all of the strict American child labor laws that Byrne and my dad are blatantly breaking. Only half-a-dozen people legally employed at the CIA know my true identity, and I have a blood relation to four of them: My dad, my mom, Ava, James, Joe Byrne, and Peters, who is our gadget man. It's nice to have your reputation precede you, and have no one doubt you based on age or gender, just because of a super-secret file.

I guess now that I'm 18, I could legally be employed there, but that's not the life I want. I'm going to college.

"Ah well," I say, trying to make light of the situation, "Joe and I go way back. I've known him longer than the four of you combined have worked for the CIA." I shrug, casually. "And Cornell? I've known him practically forever." I smirk as the try to decipher my answer-that-isn't-really-an-answer.

The team still looks impressed. Impressed and unable to form a coherent thought with their mouths.

"How old are you, anyway?" Macha asks, finally.

I shrug, about to give my typical vague response. "Old enough to know exactly what I'm doing, but still young enough to look cute doing it."

The four agents in the care laugh. The sound cuts through the tense air like a ring-knife cuts through the face of an unsuspecting teenager. I am nervous about how this is all about to go down, but I'm ready for this to end. I can't wait to get out of this spy life and to begin my own. After this mission, I will never spy again. I will never allow myself to be manipulated by intelligence agencies ever again. The thought calms me down and sets my soul on fire.  _One more night, Ella. One more night and this is all over._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will also be Ella's POV. (The chapters aren't always going to alternate from Ella to Alex) I orignally planned to combine this chapter and the next one, but I kind of loved where this one ended. Because of the split, Ella and Alex will now meet in chapter 8. Keep reading, dear readers, it's all about to come together soon!
> 
> I realized that I quite like many short chapter as opposed to fewer long ones, so this fic will probably be a collection of many short chapters.
> 
> Also, BIG NEWS! We are planning an Alex Rider big bang! For news, updates, and information, follow alexriderbigbang on tumblr!


	6. The Lovechild of a Shitshow and a Clusterfuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, dear readers! It's great to see you again!
> 
> Soooo I split Ella's chapter up again. This means Alex and Ella will actually meet in chapter 9. I know these chapters are incredibly short and somewhat episodic, but they all tie together, I swear! Alex and Ella will actually meet in this fic, as promised. Ella is again the narrator for this chapter. It won't switch between Ella and Alex every other chapter. It will just depend on what best fits the story.
> 
> For those of you who asked: Ella is called Agent 4-6-7 because of her initials. Her first name, Ella, is 4 letters long. Her middle name, Marion, (which I legitimately thought I'd mentioned in ch.1, so sorry for any confusion.) is 6 letters. Her last name, Cornell, is 7 letters. Hence, Agent 4-6-7.
> 
> Similar to Alex is canon, her job was (at least before she turned 18) highly illegal, due to child labor laws in America. Because of this, her file doesn't include anything physically identifiable, (looks, height, age, gender, family relations, etc.) just detailed mission reports.
> 
> Please leave me a review! I'm dying to know what you think of this story!
> 
> TW: Mentions of torture. Nothing remotely graphic.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own all of the physical Alex Rider books, but none of the rights to them.
> 
> And without further ado…

**Ella:**

It's almost noon when we finally catch up with the bomb in the moving truck, in Bled, Slovenia. Someone patched up the gaping hole with some silver duct tape.

 _Amateurs_ , I realize,  _They didn't even think to jack a new vehicle._

Bled is pretty rural and forest-y, so once we get off the main road, we, with help from the other three teams of soldiers, surround the truck. One of the teams of four soldiers got out of their car and created a human barrier in front of the truck so it wouldn't escape. However, they made a horrible miscalculation. They didn't realize that  _Fabio Brandenberger has no regard for human life_. The truck barrels into them, instantly killing two upon impact, and severely wounding the others. It keeps going, speeding along the road. It left my line of sight quickly.

Macha slams on the brakes, leaving just two teams left to follow the truck. She, Fletcher, and Carlson jump out of the vehicle and begin assessing and treating the victims.  _Fuck. Now is not the time to save some idiot, irresponsible, fool agents. We are going to completely lose Brandenberger and the bomb!_  I decide to take action. I Bond-roll over Shumway, who is still strapped into the back seat, looking shell-shocked, and out of the car. _Useless_ , I characterize him. I swing the back door shut and get into the driver's seat, closing the door and buckling in one swift motion. Slamming my foot onto the accelerator, I memorize the GPS coordinates of my idiot back-up team's location. "Shumway, you still with me?"

The man appears to have come out of his initial shock. "Shouldn't I be staying with the rest of my team?" He asks, stupidly.

I am going about 85 miles (136 kilometers) per hour at this point, yet I risk a glance back to stare him right in his fool face. "Welp. You'd best plan your jump accordingly because I am going after Brandenberger." He takes the hint and shuts up, nodding, as if to say 'I'll do whatever you say.'  _Obviously_ , I think, focusing my eyes back on the road,  _his degenerate ass shouldn't be anywhere near me. I am Agent 4-6-fucking-7. I was born with more field experience than he'll ever have, of course, he's going to follow my damn orders_. I really hate incompetence. "Shumway. Get out your cell phone, and dial '112.' That's the Slovenian emergency services. Tell them to send backup and a few ambulances to your team," I order him, rattling off the coordinates of his team. He complies.

I go even faster, needing to catch up to the bomb. Now, I'm driving almost 150 miles (241 km) per hour. Luckily, whoever chose this vehicle wasn't a complete tool at their job. The car was a Chevrolet Camaro, so it handled the speed just fine. I've even done 215 miles (346 km) per hour in one before.

As the speedometer reached 200 mph, (321 kph) Shumway looks terrified. It was pretty funny, actually.

"Um...4-6-7? Aren't we going about 150 miles (241 km) above the speed limit?"

"The law can bite me. Would you rather the entire nation of Israel be blown to pieces?" I snarl, done with his inexperience. I take one hand off the steering wheel and take out my phone to call my dad, to update him on our 'little situation.' It's a dangerous move, and Shumway looks scared shitless, which invigorates me. Before I hit the 'call' button, I ask my counterpart what languages he speaks, so I know not to use them.

"Besides English," he says proudly, "Spanish  _and_  some French." I roll my eyes at his arrogance. I spoke English, Dutch, French, and Spanish  _fluently_  when I was only two.  _I've always had an ear for languages_ , I realize as I run down my mental list. Just to fuck with Shumway, I decide to use more than one. I hit the call button on my phone, putting it on speaker, and my father picks up after two rings.

"Mr. Cornell?" (I don't want Shumway knowing he's my dad) I say in English, just before switching to rapid-fire Arabic. I don't totally trust that he only knows Spanish and French, so I speak as quickly and as garbled as I can, so he can't pick up anything I say. " _We have a situation. Brandenberger's truck mowed down half of one of your teams, and severely injured the other half. The team of medics you assigned to me stayed behind to help them, which I understand. However, Shumway, who is an arrogant fool, stayed in the car, and he's in the back seat. I'm currently going over 200mph in an attempt to catch up to Brandenberger and the other two teams. We should be getting close, but I want more backup. Send every team within a 100-mile radius of Bled, Slovenia to my aid. I'm not sure how much more useful I'll be after this_."

My dad answers in identical garbled Arabic. " _4-6-7_ ," he says, sounding concerned, " _What's wrong?_ "

I answer in German. " _Well, I'm feeling kind of dizzy. It could be the speeding. Or it could be…_ " I trail off, not wanting to admit my weakness by saying the rest of my sentence.

" _It could be what_?" My father growls in irritable German.

" _Remember how I was in the hospital, like 8 hours ago_?" I ask in innocent Italian.

" _Yes…_ " He responds impatiently in the same language. As dire a situation as this is, I can't help but find this flawless switching of languages hilarious. I bite the side of my cheek to stop myself from smiling.

Russian this time. " _The good doctor said that I might have a concussion...I didn't exactly stay for testing. I decided that jumping out the window and onto the fire escape would be the best course of action…_ " I hear my dad facepalm. I continue my little monologue before he can get a word in. " _In my defense, Mr. Cornell, you did tell me to get out of the hospital in half an hour. CT scans take much longer than that. I was just following orders._ " I say, as innocently as one possibly can while shouting in Russian at a man who they are pretending isn't their father, and driving just over 200mph down the road in unfamiliar forest-y Slovenia.

I hear a loud sigh from the other end of the phone. " _Okay,_ " he says, matching my garbled Russian with his own. " _I know you well enough that I can't convince you to walk away from a dangerous situation like this. Go save Israel, and we'll get your head checked out when you return._ "

' _When you return_ ' repeats in my head a few times.  _Not if. When._

My father continues, switching back to German. " _Byrne just received word that the other two teams just pulled the truck over, and are talking to the driver now. I'm tracking your vehicle as we speak, and it's about 10 miles up the road. Ditch the car and the degenerate in the backseat about 8.5 miles up the road, and run the rest of the way as an unseen backup agent just in case shit hits the fan. Godspeed, 4-6-7. You can do this. I know you can. I'll meet up with you in France._ " My father says 'Godspeed' a lot. He's old-fashioned, in that way. My father, he believes in God and Country. Having personally been through hell and back as a child, I don't, but I appreciate the sentiment, and he knows it.

" _I understand completely,_ " I say, switching over to Dutch. " _I'll see you on the other side_." The line clicks dead. I abandon Shumway and the car in the nearest ditch, telling him to stay put, until further instructions. A tense scene is taking place about a mile up the road. I run towards it, never looking back.

When I arrive at the scene, I stop in my tracks.  _If a shitshow and a clusterfuck met up and had a child, it would be this._

Concealing myself behind a tree trunk, I try to process the scene in my wake. Two of the teams have been completely massacred, and there are pools of blood and corpses strewn everywhere. Of the remaining four members, one is on his knees with Fabio Brandenberger holding a gun to his head, two are being physically held hostage by Brandenberger's cohorts, and the last is being tortured for information, out in the open, and he's singing like a goddamn bird.

"We're with the CIA," I hear the words come tumbling out of his sobbing, coward mouth, "We've come to stop you and your bomb from getting to Iraq."

_How did this imbecile pass basic RTI*? I passed the CIA RTI course at age 5. What the hell has this organization come to, so we're hiring fools like him?_

Another thought surfaces in my jumbled, possibly-concussed head.

 _Everyone here, save the agents being held hostage, has to die right now._  While I've been conditioned to killing almost my whole life, but I still don't particularly enjoy it, however, I have no choice. Since everyone is standing, or laying dead, in the middle of the street, to the right of the truck, I creep up to the left side, and snatch a gun off of the solitary dead agent on this side of the truck. "Thank you for your service," I murmur as I check the gun. It's not a sniper rifle, but it has a silencer so it will have to do. I'm about to climb on top of the truck and snipe Brandenburger and his cohorts off one by one with my stolen weapon when I hear a scream.

"Shit!" I exclaim when I see Luca Brandenburger, Fabio's son.  _If only you could put a silencer on a child like you can a gun._  I hear a gunshot, signaling the death of the man that Fabio was holding at gunpoint. He comes running over to see why his son is screaming. Thinking quickly, I scoop Luca up, holding him tight against my chest, and holding my gun to his head. I do this partly to protect myself, and partly to have leverage against Fabio. "One more step, Brandenberger, and I'll put a bullet through your only son's head," I growl, not actually willing to go through with my threat. Brandenberger, however, isn't willing to call my bluff. I keep my face blank and emotionless, not letting anything slip. "Put your weapon down and lay flat on the ground," I order him. He complies. Luckily, his men haven't shown up yet, as they are still holding the other CIA agents hostage. The only thing between the two of us is his 6-year-old son. I hate to put a kid through this trauma, I really do, but I'm not risking my life for this brat. He is my cover, and currently, the only reason I haven't been shot yet. My mind is racing a mile a minute. Brandenberger knows too much about me to stay alive, and if I don't shoot him now, he'll probably escape. However, I don't want to shoot this man in front of his young son. Traumatizing children is not okay.

Three more gunshots rang out, and that was when I realized I was on my own. Shumway was about a mile down the road, probably uselessly still sitting in the Camaro. I look over my right shoulder and see Brandenberger's guards. They've made their way around to our side of the truck, and one has blood splashed on his torso.  _CIA blood_. I back up until my back is touching the back of the truck.

The situation has gone from the lovechild of a shitshow and clusterfuck to hell. I don't like my odds. Brandenberger is now standing, eyeing me, and looking for a way to shoot me without harming Luca. He's standing on my left, gun in his hands. His three guards are on my right, guns trained at my head. One of them snarls, and all of a sudden, I'm lying through my teeth. "You're done, Brandenberger. The CIA is almost here. You can't shoot me, or your son will die. Stand down. Be a man, and go to jail." I'm just speculating, praying, even, that the CIA is on its way. They've never been incredibly reliable with backup, and when they do send it, it's often young, inexperienced agents who get themselves killed. And I still have qualms about shooting a six-year-old.  _If Luca dies this afternoon, it will not be by my hands,_  I silently promise myself.

"The way I see it, Agent 4-6-7," Brandenberger spits out, "You are younger than expected, by the way. That's beside the point. Anyways, you're trapped. You are surrounded. You will hand over my son, and then you will die. Spy."  _Poor Brandenberger. He doesn't realize that_   _I will never die a spy._

"It's cute that you think you have any control over this situation," I growl. I throw myself and Luca to the ground, narrowly missing Fabio's bullet, which was aimed for my head. Clutching the boy and my gun tight, I log-roll underneath the truck, and over to the other side. I point to a nearby tree. "Sit behind there," I hiss at Luca. I must have been just terrifying enough because the brat actually does as I say. I open the passenger door of the truck, and in one swift movement, the door is shut once again, and I'm sitting in the driver's seat, foot on the accelerator. Gunshots ring out, and now I'm dodging bullets in the driver's seat.  _Come on Ella, you can do this. End this now. This can all be over if you just drive._  I take a deep breath and dodged another bullet aimed at my head.

And I did. I barreled the truck straight into Brandenberger's guards, killing them on impact, Walter White-style*.

I snarl at Brandenberger, and for the first time, he looks truly vulnerable. He looks scared. Defeated. Every rational part of my brain was screaming at me to mow the fucker down with the moving truck because _he is a fucking criminal_ , but somewhere else inside my head was yelling just as loudly, telling me not to do this in front of the man's son. I know what it's like to witness death at a young age. Hell, I killed for the first time when I was only 10-years-old. I can't ruin Luca, even more tham he already is. My brain was having a civil war: _to kill or not to kill_ , and it sure as hell wasn't improving my already pounding headache. I have never felt remorse about killing someone before, not even when I was 10, but this is different. His child is right here, poking his head around the tree I sat him behind. He is bawling his eyes out. I cannot kill this man, not in front of his child. I'm done with this fucked up world of crime, spies, and espionage, screwing up children. It happened to me, and I am a fucked-up mess of emotions with impulsive, bat-shit crazy tendencies, who is pretty much unable to make real human connections, or so says, my CIA-required therapist. I cannot fuck-up another kid. I cannot do this to Luca, no matter how much I hate his dad. _Jesus, morals are annoying as hell in this line of work_. I sigh, admitting defeat to myself, and get out of the car. I know that I can't be the one to let Luca witness his father's murder in cold blood. The cold-blooded killing doesn't bother me, I've been doing it for years, but emotionally and psychologically ruining children is against everything I stand for.

Brandenberger is still standing up, looking puzzled that he is still alive. I shake my head, slowly, deliberately. "Give me your weapon and your cell phone. I'm not going to kill you, not in front of Luca, but you need to let me tie you up while I wait for backup." He is confused, and I would have been too, but he hands over his gun and a cell phone, unlocking the latter with his fingerprint. I instruct him to lay them on the ground next to me, and as he is doing this, I tie him around a tree using my shoelaces to contain his hands and feet. I watch him like a hawk, holding a gun to his left kidney, out of Luca's sight. "I can't emotionally ruin a kid like I've been ruined," I murmur, desperate for him to understand. This is honestly so weird for me. If Luca hadn't been there, Brandenberger would have been mowed down by a truck 5 minutes ago. Well, actually, if Luca hadn't been there, I would have been able to snipe him and his guards off, uninterrupted. Anyways, Brandenberger would have been long dead in any other situation. I have no qualms about killing, even in cold-blood if it's for a good cause, but again, I can't ruin this poor child.

Brandenberger nods, and whispers "Thank you," completely understanding my convoluted intentions.

I dial my dad's untraceable phone number again, for the second time this hour, and he picks up after one ring.

"Hello?" He asks in English, unsure as to who is calling him.

Exhausted, I choose to speak Dutch, which is close enough to English for Brandenberger to get the gist of the conversation, but far enough away to retain at least some privacy. " _Sir? It's 4-6-7. I need back up, immediately. I want you, personally. There are 12 dead CIA agents at the scene, and 3 of Brandenberger's men are dead, and there's a bit of a situation with Brandenberger…_ " I trail off, not wanting to show my dad any weakness. On the other hand, I freely admitted it to an international criminal, so my priorities are a little jacked-up, to say the least.

My father replies, matching my language and sense of urgency. " _I'm boarding the Chinook now, as we speak. I'm coming from Lyon, so give me three hours. I'm also tracking your call and have your exact coordinates._ " He pauses to catch his breath. " _What situation? Where is Brandenberger? What is his status? Are you okay, Agent?_ "

" _I'm fine. My head is pounding, but I'm fine. Brandenberger is alive, right in front of me, tied to a tree with my shoelaces. I have a gun pointed at his left kidney,_ " I say, not explaining the real issue.

" _And do you plan on doing anything about that?_ " My father asks, clearly puzzled.

" _No, sir. He will remain here and alive until you and your authorities arrive._ "

" _It's not that I don't trust your judgment, Agent, but why in the hell haven't you just shot this bastard yet? Did he not threaten to strap you to an atomic bomb that was going to vaporize you while simultaneously blowing up the entire nation of Israel?_ " My logic sounds so stupid as the words tumble out of his mouth, but I am not giving up on my morals.  _Not now. Not when I am so close to getting away from this will I abandon my sense of ethics._

" _I have my reasons, Sir. I will explain them to you in person if you so desire. I will see you soon,_ " I shoot back, obstinately. I hang up the phone before he can question me further.

I turn my attention back to Brandenberger, who hasn't made a move to escape. "Why haven't you killed me? I was horrible to you. I'm a terrible person. I'd have shot me by now in your situation," he questions me, suspicious.

"Because," I say, nonchalant, totally okay with spilling out my deepest secrets to a man who threatened to murder me about 12 hours ago, "I couldn't do it in front of your son. I couldn't traumatize a child forever at such a young age. Your his father, and it would psychologically ruin him forever if he were to witness your murder, and I can't carry that with me for the rest of my life. My da-boss will never understand because he sees so many things in black and white. As long as it saves the country or the world, it's morally right. He hasn't learned to see the gray yet.*** He's okay with manipulating children, such as me, as long as it serves the greater good. However, as a child who has grown up in this twisted world of spies and crime, and has been through hell and back, all I see is the gray. There is no longer any moral right and wrong, it's all just one big, fuzzy, fucked-up gray area that I'm trying my best to navigate, and I know the trauma and horrors of this cruel world of espionage, and I cannot in good conscious fuck up another child as badly as I have been psychologically fucked up. I would have killed you hours ago, had it not been for your son. Morally, I can't hurt another child mentally like I've been hurt, or traumatize them like I've been traumatized." A few stray tears are streaking down my face. I look Brandenberger in the eyes.

"Thank you," He whispers, "This world is too fucked up for most adults to handle, and you can't be a day over 16, so it must be impossible for you. Thank you, truly, for not putting my son through the same.

It feels weird, yet strangely perfect to confess my deepest and darkest confessions to an international crime lord in the middle of a Slovenian forest. "You don't have any contingency plans, do you? You know, back up in case shit hits the fan? No more men coming?" He shakes his head. "Good," I nod, not trusting him even a little bit, I am going to disguise the truck in the middle of the forest, and you and your son will be sitting in there until my people arrive." He nods again. Before he can react, I lift my right foot, and land a perfectly executed roundhouse kick on the side of his head, effectively knocking him out, so I'm able to transport him without any 'surprises.' I'm emotional and broken, not stupid or incompetent.

* * *

I ironically tie Brandenberger to the same bench he handcuffed me to. However, unlike Brandenberger, I actually do a good job. On top of tying his wrists together and to one bench leg, and his ankles together and to another bench leg, I tie his fingers together using the straps I cut from my bra with my ring, so he is unable to untie himself. I kick him in the head again, for good measure, so he doesn't wake up and attempt to escape while I'm out completing my next task.

"Luca?" I call out as I shut the truck door behind me. I need to find the younger Brandenberger, or my dramatic show of morals will have all been for nothing. I walk over to the tree I had originally left him at, to find him curled up into a fetal position, sleeping. It's actually kind of sweet. Don't get me wrong, he is his father's son in every sense of the phrase, and his father is a criminal and a sadist. I'm not developing feelings for either Brandenberger. I'd kill Fabio in a heartbeat if his son wasn't there. He is a terrible man, and it would deliver a severe blow to Onyx if he died. However, something about a naïve little boy curled up in a fetal position that really clouds my judgment. _Goddamn, childhood trauma. It fucks you up for life. Why in the fuck can't I form a rational thought?_

* * *

Two hours later, I'm sitting and watching both Brandenbergers, when I hear the sound of helicopter blades.  _Dad._

* * *

About 20 minutes after I hear the blades, there is a knock at the back door of the truck. " _4-6-7? Across the_ nation, hundreds of flights are boarding." I hear my dad say in quick and garbled Mandarin. With a grin, I open the door, letting him and his team in. It's all over.

"Goddamn. Is that the bomb?" An agent asks, awestruck, pointing at the big-ass bomb in the front of the truck's trailer. I roll my eyes and reach over to hug my dad. He discreetly kisses the top of my head, and it feels so good to be back in his arms. Both Brandenbergers are still out: Fabio is unconscious, and Luca is asleep.

"Quite a scene," My father comments, "50 miles down the road, there were bloodstains, presumably from the first batch of injured agents, and right up the road, it's a goddamn massacre." I nod, not trusting myself to speak. "Are you sure you're okay?" My dad asks, suddenly concerned. I don't know why he's concerned, and then my eyes are closed and I'm falling.

* * *

I wake up, sometime later, in another hospital bed. I feel drowsy and sleep-deprived. The only other person in the room is my dad, who just noticed I was awake.

"Ella," he murmurs. This is the first time I've heard my actual name in a very long while, and I know that I'm safe and that everything will be okay. I again close my eyes, relishing the moment.

* * *

When I wake up again, I slightly more rested, and a lot less like I've been hit by a train. "Ella, you're awake? How are you feeling?" My dad asks, still the only other figure in the room.

"Better," I assure him. It's really quite nice to see my dad concerned about my well-being. "What happened? Where are we?"

"You passed out in my arms back in Brandenberger's truck, from what the doctors say was from stress and exhaustion," I nod, remembering that much, "You and I were airlifted to Paris, and that's where we are now, in the hospital. Fabio Brandenberger is on his way back to the States, to be interrogated and killed, and Luca Brandenberger is on his way back to Switzerland to live with his mother." I smile because this all worked out perfectly. "You don't have a concussion, by the way, you were just sleep-deprived, dehydrated, and delirious."

"It's all over, Dad," I say, my voice filled with relief. It feels so good to finally speak these words. These words that will end so much of my personal pain and suffering.

"The end of an era," He says, almost nostalgically. "What exactly happened, back in Bled? What made you unable to pull the trigger on Brandenberger?"

 _Now is_   _so not the time_. "Shhhhh," I murmur, "Not now," I manage to articulate before falling back into the wonderful oblivion of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Resistance to Interrogation
> 
> **Another Breaking Bad reference!
> 
> ***Quote from my favorite AR fanfic, "The Internship," by Zyzyax.
> 
> Longest chapter ever!
> 
> I split Ella's chapter up again, because this one got way longer, and way deeper into Ella's subconscious than I expected. She has somewhatquestionable morals that aren't always super well defined, but she doesn't want any other kids to go through the hell she has. She can be irrational, and convoluted as hell, but she sticks to her guns.
> 
> Also, I noticed that Alex has literally been in two chapters of this, so I'm bringing him back as the narrator for the next chapter!
> 
> Leave a review, please! I'd love to know what you're thinking of this fic so far!
> 
> Also, BIG NEWS! We are planning an Alex Rider big bang! For news, updates, and information, follow alexriderbigbang on tumblr!


	7. Loose Ends and New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!
> 
> Soooo, I'm a terrible, lying author, and I announce things before I plan them. [facepalm] Ella will again be the narrator, and Alex will narrate the next chapter, in which Alex and Ella will actually meet. So, one more chapter of Ella-narrated buildup, and then we see Alex again, and our two favorite teenage spies will finally meet! As an apology, I wrote you guys a 9,700+ word chapter! Yeet!
> 
> This is kind of a transitional chapter. It's long, highly episodic, a little choppy, but very much needed to (finally) progress the plot.
> 
> So, in this chapter, Ella is jamming out to Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive." I didn't use all of the lyrics, only the ones applicable to her mental state. This song is so good: badass and inspirational like Ella, herself. So, I definitely recommend listening to it while reading that section.
> 
> TW: Mentions of attempted sexual assault/rape. Nothing remotely graphic, and it just mentions that the assault about to happen. (The assault doesn;t happen, it's just mentioned that it's planned)
> 
> Please leave me a review! I would love to know what you think of Ella!
> 
> Disclaimer: Ya girl owns Ella and her confusingly convoluted moral compass, but not Alex Rider and crew. I also don't own the amazing Gloria Gaynor's I Will Survive. I also also don't own Grey's Anatomy.

**Ella:**

I'm still in the hospital when I wake up again, and I have a lot more energy now. My doctor, a tall black woman named Dr. Waters, said that after a full physical, I was healthy enough to be discharged. Her 'prescription' was for me to get more rest.

Since we  _are_  in Paris, we are speaking French. " _Doubtful_ ," I cackle, " _I start college in three weeks_."

She laughs too. " _Well, at least try not to completely exhaust yourself. Where are you going to college?"_

" _Oxford,_ " I smile. It's true. I really am going to Oxford. Finally. My life as Agent 4-6-7, underage spy for the CIA is officially over, and my life as Ella Cornell, college student has officially begun.  _Damn, does it feel good._

" _That's a great school, good luck, Laila_." It takes me a second-a second too long-to realize that she's using one of my many fake identities, Laila Arquette. I have many false identities, and rarely use my real one, but more on that later.

* * *

24 hours later, and I'm stepping off of an airplane. My father and I are back in Washington D.C. to tie up loose ends with the CIA and my identity, and to pack for college. My new life is right here, on the horizon, and I  _can't wait._

Before we head over to HQ for the debriefing and legal stuff, I want to go home and see the rest of my family. It's been a rough few weeks, and in just a few days, I won't see them for a long time, so my dad actually agrees.

When we get to the house, I see James, first. He hugs me. Tight.

"Ella! You're okay! I'm so sorry I couldn't come back for you. The whole mission just went to shit, and I just-I'm sorry." You  _come back for_ me?  _Bitch, please. I orchestrated and performed most of your blessed escape. And, I only did that so I wouldn't have to deal with your sorry ass when real shit went down._  I smile at my older brother, as sweet as sugar.

"It's okay, James, s'not your fault," I lie, "Anyways, the mission was a success, and we are both home safe,"  _No thanks to you, asshat,_ "That's all that really matters." He nods, accepting this. Everyone knows I'm the best agent, but James doesn't know the extent of how much better I really am. I'm kind of sorry, in a twisted way, that the CIA will still have to deal with his incompetence. James has only had one truly successful mission, which was somewhere in Egypt a couple of years ago. He was just another agent who had no part in the planning, yet he is annoyingly arrogant about his one success, and he is a goddamn cocky spy, which is the worst type. I honestly don't think he'll last two more years in the field. I know for a fact my dad thinks the same. However, I keep my thoughts to myself, plaster a smile on my face, and leave James to go and find Christopher.

"Ellie! You're back!" Christopher exclaims, hugging me tightly. His voice lowers to a whisper, "I'm sorry you had to deal with James's usual incompetence. He has literally nothing to be arrogant about, yet he always feels the need to prove himself."

"Yep," I agree with my younger brother, matching his whispering tone, "He can't accept that his little sister can literally kick his ass in everything."

"And you're just  _so_  humble about it," he teases, and I roll my eyes. I open my mouth to speak but freeze when I hear a scream.

"ELLA!" I identify the yell as my kid sister, Lilia. "I MISSED YOU," She continues, "James came home without you and I didn't know where you were, Ella."

"Don't worry, Lili, I'm okay," I reassure her. She hugs me tight.

After similar hellos from my mom and Ava, more of James's holier than thou attitude, Lilia literally grabbing onto my leg, and hundreds of exasperated exchanged glances between Dad, Christopher and I, I decide that I'm sick of my family, and decide to visit HQ with my father.

I change into my signature outfit, which is both practical and stylish: Black combat boots, stretchy, yet fitted light blue jeans, a navy-and-white striped short-sleeved shirt, an olive green bomber jacket, my chunky white belt that includes a survival kit, and some of my many pieces of gadget jewelry. Besides my flower/knife ring, I wear a lot of jewelry with concealed gadgets, that Peters, the CIA gadget man created for me. My collection of rings, bracelets, necklaces, and earrings that double as everything from explosives, to knives, to poison. Some might even say that my fashion sense is downright  _killer_.

* * *

My dad opens the door, and I saunter into the office of Mr. Joseph Edward Byrne. I'm not technically supposed to know his middle name, but I can hardly help it when I learn such information from his file...that I stole. I sit down opposite him, swinging my feet up and resting them on his desk. It's kind of our thing. "Mr. Bryne," I greet with a smirk.

"Ella, it's nice to see you alive and well. Congratulations on a job well done."

"Yeah, no thanks to your agents. They were all terrible at their jobs, except for the medics."

"Yeah, we have much better. We purposely gave you our worst teams to see how you'd no without reliable backup," My dad shrugs, nonchalant.

"Why? I've performed dozens of missions with little to no backup. Did you  _want_ me to die? Also, what happened to that degenerate waste of a person, Shumway? Someone remind to to kick his ass when I get the chance. Also-"

"Ella, slow down," My dad laughs, "We know that you are perfectly capable to handle yourself without backup. However, we wanted to give you one last experience without it, so you'll be prepared for when you join MI6. Those bastards are  _infamous_  for denying their agents backup. We-"

"Excuse me?" I explode. What the fuck is this MI6 nonsense?! I'm going to college, not a British fucking intelligence agency. "I will not be joining  _any_  such organization, under  _any_  circumstances. I'm going to college to find a different career, away from spying. How could you even  _insinuate_  that-"

"Ella, Ella, Ella," my dad singsongs condescendingly, as if I am five, "You're you. Are you really so naïve to think that you won't get into trouble somehow and get mixed up with '6? You have a knack for finding trouble, and when there's no trouble, you and your curiosity create some. There is no doubt in my mind, that within a year of moving to England, you will find yourself in the company of MI6 and the every lovely Mrs. Jones." I want to protest, to argue, but in my heart, I know my dad is right. Trouble and I? We're like two teenagers in love: we just can't seem to stay away from each other.

"Fuck," I mumble, admitting my defeat.

Joey Byrne chooses this moment to change the subject. "That fool, Richard Shumway, we reassigned him. Don't worry, Ella, he won't be able to spread any information about you, because for the next 5 years, his assignment is counting sheep in Siberia."

"Mr. Byrne? I didn't think that there  _were_  sheep in SIberia," I laugh, puzzled.  _Serves the coward right._

"Exactly. Whenever a new level of incompetence is achieved here at the CIA, I make it my mission to find the worst hellhole I possibly can for whoever is responsible to go and count sheep for half a decade."

I cackle vindictively. "That's a great mission statement, Mr. Byrne, you should paint that on the front doors." This merits a laugh from both Byrne and my father.

Byrne clears his throat. "On a more serious note, Ella, we need to discuss your identity."

"I think you mean  _identities_ , Mr. Byrne," I say bluntly.

He coughs. "Yes, well, since your real identity, Ella Marion Cornell has no official ties to the CIA, that is the one you are to use at Oxford. Cornell is a fairly common American surname, and despite your father's high rank in the CIA, it is unlikely that anyone will make the connection, especially considering he has no relations in his file. However, you will, of course, have to make a few minor changes to your identity. I have prepared you a file, so everyone has their stories straight."

"So what you're telling me, Mr. Byrne, is that you made me a file on myself? Like, my true self?" This is funny, in an ironic sort of way.

"Who even is your 'true self,' Ella?" Byrne says, only partly joking, "Because I'm not sure anyone will ever really know, yourself included. Think about it like this. Your next and final mission is Operation: Normal Life, and you just need to learn the basics of your new self in order to be successful." I nod, because this actually makes a lot of sense. "Now," Byrne continues, "Is the issue of the Agent 4-6-7 file. Most of the criminal underworld knows of 4-6-7, though few know anything concrete, as it is a lot of rumors and speculations, some of which contain bits of truth, whilst others were no more than lies spread by the CIA to confuse people. The way I see it, you have four options with what to do with your 4-6-7 file, and I'll let you choose. One, we simply close the file, and Agent 4-6-7 is forever off the grid. Two, we leave the file open, but we don't add or delete anything. We leave it open, just to be ambiguous and to confuse any enemies. If you ever need to, you'll be able to fall back on the identity, and use 4-6-7's connections if need be. Three, we fake 4-6-7's death. The file is closed, but you will never be able to use 4-6-7's identity or connections again. I know you want out of this life for good, and this option will accomplish that for you, though there is no coming back from it. And four," he says the last option quite hopefully, "You go to Oxford, but come back when we need you as a legal employee. Obviously, your father and I want you to continue working for us under choice four, but it is inevitably your decision."

And it's not a difficult one. "Option two. Keep my file open, so I can fall back on the identity. I don't want to commit to this life, but as Dad said, I have a knack for trouble, and the will to help people, and I may need the connections someday."

"A wise decision," Byrne proclaims, and my father nods in agreement. "Now. I know that over the years, you've created quite a few fake identities for yourself to fall back on, in case of emergency. This was good thinking. I don't know what the future holds, but you may well need some of all of them someday. If you give me all of the information you have on them by tomorrow, in exchange for this knowledge, I will legitimize all of them by the time you leave for England. I will get you legit papers, passports, documents of citizenship, bank accounts, and places of residency. There will be no questions concerning the legality of any of your current identities."

_Damn._ "Mr. Byrne, that's incredibly generous of you." I know that the CIA will have all of my fake identities' information, but that's a small price to pay for what Byrne is offering."

His flashes me a genuine smile. "So, Ella, is risking your life on something you didn't believe in for 13 years. You deserve this. You earned this.

* * *

Since I've been creating false, back-up identities for myself since I've been twelve, it takes a comically long time for me to write all of the information down for Byrne. Before he got promoted from field agent to Byrne's number two, my dad would often take me with him on his missions. I was his best child, his most prized possession, and he wanted me to set up a web of different connections and identities. When I was 15, he got shot in the leg. He was in the middle of the Amazon, and the wound got infected, rendering his left leg nearly useless. His right leg still works perfectly fine, but he now walks slowly with a limp and a cane, making it difficult for him to be a field agent. This is when he got promoted. After that, I traveled the world alone for two years, only coming back to receive missions from him and Byrne. During this period, I created as many false, backup identities as I could, which is how and why I have so many fake identities. Some were much easier to form than others, and they all have connections to the respective criminal underworlds in their respective countries. To do this, I immersed myself into the local language and culture, which was much easier in countries in which I spoke the language fluently. My official list of languages I speak fluently are: English, Dutch, German, French, Spanish, Italian, Arabic, Russian, and Mandarin Chinese. However, I know enough of many other languages to get around and survive. I've always had an ear for languages, and growing up, I had lots of freetime, so I used my time to become fluent in as many languages as possible.

I begin writing Byrne a list, alphabetical by country name. I can't wait to see the equally shocked and impressed looks on his and my dad's faces when they see this list of false identities.

 

Country of Residence | Name | Age | Language Spoken | City of Residence  
---|---|---|---|---  
Afghanistan | Azita Jan Arman | 22 | Dari | Kabul  
Algeria | Yasmine Habib | 21 | Arabic, French | Algiers  
Argentina | Augustina Torres | 24 | Spanish | Buenos Aires  
Australia | Charlotte Williams | 19 | English | Sydney  
Belgium | Lucie Vertonghen | 20 | Dutch, French, German | Brussels  
Brazil | Yarah Oliveira | 24 | Potuguese | Rio de Janeiro  
Canada | Alice Thibault | 22 | English, French | Montreal  
China | Huang Mei Lan | 22 | Mandarin Chinese | Beijing  
Colombia | Isabella Moreno | 19 | Spanish | Bogota  
Croatia | Bura Mandžukić | 24 | Croatian, Italian, Serbian | Zagreb  
Cuba | Juanita de la Cruz | 21 | Spanish | Havana  
Egypt | Kamilah Antar | 23 | Arabic | Cairo  
France | Laila Arquette | 19 | French | Paris  
Germany | Greta Müller | 20 | English, German | Munich  
India | Avanti Parikh | 25 | Hindi | Mumbai  
Indonesia | Sari Hasanputri | 22 | Arabic, Dutch, Indonesian | Jakarta  
Iraq | Hadara Seif | 24 | Arabic | Baghdad  
Israel | Yetta Blum | 19 | Arabic, Hebrew | Jerusalem  
Italy | Elisabetta Rossi | 21 | French, German, Italian | Venice  
Japan | Miko Miyamoto | 22 | Japanese | Tokyo  
Luxembourg | Sonia Meyer | 19 | French, German | Luxembourg City  
Mali | Adana Musa | 22 | French | Bamako  
Mexico | Yolanda Rivera | 18 | Spanish | Tijuana  
Netherlands,The | Noorje De Vries | 18 | Dutch, English, German | Amsterdam  
Russia | Viktoriya Petrov | 20 | Russian | Moscow  
Serbia | Teodora Mitrović | 22 | Serbian | Belgrade  
Somalia | Ardo Sharif | 20 | Arabic | Mogadishu  
South Africa | Elna Bekker | 22 | Afrikaans, Dutch, English | Bloemfontein  
Spain | Valentina Ramos | 20 | French, Spanish | Barcelona  
Switzerland | Zuna Adank | 23 | French, German, Italian | Bern  
Thailand | Sanoh Bunnag | 18 | Thai | Bangkok  
United Arab Emirates | Elham Khan | 21 | Arabic | Dubai  
United Kingdom | Julie Thompson | 19 | English, French | London  
United States | Amelia Richmond | 19 | English | New York  
United States | Meredith Evans | 22 | English, Spanish | Miami  
United States | Natalie Abbott | 25 | English | Los Angeles  
  
 

* * *

 

The next afternoon, I'm back in Byrne's office with my father, handing them my list of soon-to-be-legal false identities.

I have bank accounts, occupations, (mostly underground and shady) and residencies for identity that I also give to Byrne, but here is my list of fake IDs, alphabetized by country.

"Jesus, Ella, you have more fake identities than I do," My father marveled, "I only have six. Also, how many freaking languages do you  _speak_?"

"Well, I learned from the best" I say, arrogantly. Byrne laughs. "And I only am fluent in the ones you are. The others, I know enough to get by, but I still need to to study them, as I am far from fluent."

"Jesus," My dad repeated, in awe.

"It's really quite impressive. I've never seen anyone with this many identities. How in the hell?" Byrne pauses, thinking for a moment, "Actually, I don't want to know how."

These identities were built on, to put it nicely,  _questionable_  legal terms, so he really doesn't. I nod my agreement.

"I'll have these legalized before you leave for Oxford. Please, come back to my office the day of to collect the papers," He pauses again, "And to say goodbye."

"Mr. Byrne, it's not like I'm going on a suicidal mission, it's just college," I tease. He laughs, reaching over his desk to shake my hand.

"I'll see you then, Ella," he smiles, and I grin back. Joe's not a bad guy, he's like my uncle or my grandfather or something, but it's hard to enjoy your time with someone who sends you off to your death so goddamn often. I will miss him, I think.

* * *

I zip up my last suitcase. It's weird, seeing my entire life packed up into just four bags. I gaze around my now mostly empty room. It's weird.  _It's over_. It's strange to think about much my life is about to change, though most of the thoughts are pleasant ones. No more manipulation, no more guilt-tripping, no more CIA, no more spying, no more missions, no more near-death experiences, no more saving people, no more Byrne, no more Dad, no more Christopher. I really will miss my family, even Byrne, though we're not blood related. That will be the hardest part of all of this. Leaving my family behind, but I'll survive. Ella Cornell is nothing, if not adaptable and a survivor.  _Ella, girl, you will survive this. You can do this. You've been through hell and back, and this is easy. You've got this._  I take a deep breath.  _I will survive!_

_I will survive. I will survive. I will survive._ I laugh out loud, thinking of the song by the same name, and how applicable it was to my current situation. I search it up on the new iPhone my dad bought me. It's the first non-burner phone I've ever owned. Gloria Gaynor's voice rings out.

" _ **At first I was afraid, I was petrified**_

_**Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side** _

_**But then I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong** _

_**And I grew strong** _

_**And I learned how to get along** _

_That's pretty true, when you think about it in terms of the CIA and I. They definitely did me wrong, and I know I grew strong._

_**And so you're back** _

_**From outer space** _

_**I just walked in to find you here with that sad look upon your face** _

_**I should have changed that stupid lock, I should have made you leave your key** _

_**If I'd known for just one second you'd be back to bother me** _

_CIA_ bitches  _had better not_

_**Go on now, go, walk out the door** _

_**Just turn around now** _

_**'Cause you're not welcome anymore** _

_Hell yes. CIA is not welcome anymore!_

_**Weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye** _

_**Do you think I'd crumble** _

_**Did you think I'd lay down and die?** _

_Ella Cornell will_ never  _lay down and die_

_**Oh no, not I, I will survive** _

_**Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I'll stay alive** _

_**I've got all my life to live** _

_**And I've got all my love to give and I'll survive** _

_**I will survive, hey, hey** _

_I will survive!_ At this point, I am dancing around my mostly empty room, jumping over suitcases and twirling. It feels great to dance off all of my pent-up nerves and anxiety.

_**Go on now, go, walk out the door** _

_**Just turn around now** _

_**'Cause you're not welcome anymore** _

_**Do you think I'd crumble** _

_**Did you think I'd lay down and die?** _

_**Oh no, not I, I will survive** _

_**Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I'll stay alive** _

_**I've got all my life to live** _

_**And I've got all my love to give and I'll survive** _

_**I will survive** _

Now, I've picked up a hairbrush, and am dramatically singing into it like a microphone. It feels freeing to just be twirling and singing at the top of my lungs. Music really is the best de-stressor. I only wish I played more instruments.

_**Go on now, go, walk out the door** _

_**Just turn around now** _

_**'Cause you're not welcome anymore** _

_**Weren't you the one who tried to break me with goodbye** _

_**Do you think I'd crumble** _

_**Did you think I'd lay down and die?** _

_**Oh no, not I, I will survive** _

_**Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I'll stay alive** _

_**I've got all my life to live** _

_**And I've got all my love to give and I'll survive** _

_**I will survive** _

_**I will survive"** _

The song finishes up, and I've actually broken a sweat from the singing, the dancing, the twirling, and the jumping. It's the best I've felt in ages: truly carefree. I'm entering a new life. One where I can be loose and easy-going. One where I can dance and sing around my room without fear of being killed. I'm free, and I will survive.

* * *

Today, I have a flight. My flight is from Washington D.C. to Oxford, England, and I am hype. I have never been so excited for anything in my entire life. College! I truly can't believe that this is finally happening.

My room is all packed up. I don't have really have any friends, so I don't have to say any goodbyes. I just have one last thing to do before heading to the airport.

* * *

I arrive at HQ rolling a suitcase behind me. I walk slowly, taking deep breaths, trying to take it all in.  _For the very last time_. I have so many memories here from playing hide and seek with my siblings, to getting gadgets from Peters, to plotting how to steal Joe Byrne's files, to studying languages in the library. The whole thing still feels surreal. I am leaving my home, my life, my family. As happy as I am to get the hell out of here, I literally grew up in this building. I spent so many hours training, learning, working, studying, and playing here, and I think I'm going to really miss it. I take a shaky breath as I knock on Joe's office door.  _For the last time._

"Hello, Mr. Byrne," I greet him  _for the last time._

"Ella, it's good to see you," he smiles back.

I walk over to one of the chairs opposite him, as casual as ever, and put my feet on his desk.  _For the last time._

_Goddamnit brain, fuck off._

_But Ella, you need this constant reminder of what you'll never do again._

_I SAID SHUT UP!_

I ignore my internal civil war, and smile at the head of the CIA  _for the last t-_

_GODDAMMIT!_

"You too, Mr. Byrne,"  _What else is there to say?_

"So, Ella, I have a few things for you," he announces awkwardly, "First," he begins, handing me a large stack of manila envelopes, "Here, Ella, are your fake identities. Passports, bank accounts, citizenships, birth certificates, the works. All completely legal."

"How did you get these all finished so quickly?" I marvel as I place them in my suitcase.

"Let's just say you're not the only one with tricks up your sleeve," he winks at me. I laugh. "Anyways, I looked at the language list on the identities paper you gave me, and I got you a sort of going-away present." Standing up, Byrne pulls out a stack of nine beautiful textbooks from behind his desk. I swing my legs off of his desk, and pour over the covers. Dari, Portuguese, Croatian, Serbian, Hindi, Indonesian, Hebrew, Japanese, and Thai. The nine languages that my identities need, but I am not yet fluent in.

"M-Mr. Byrne...I don't even know what to say...these are beautiful," I stutter. They really are. This is the most meaningful gift I've ever received, and I love my new textbooks. "Thank you so much," I manage.

"Thank  _you_  so much, Ella, for risking your life so many times for us. If ever, you need anything, you have a friend in a very high place." He smiles at me warmly.

I walk around his desk, after putting my textbooks in my suitcase, and hug Joe Byrne. I bury my face into his collar. He pats my back, awkwardly. "Mr. Byrne," I whisper. I'm crying now. Tears are spilling down my face, and wetting his shirt. This moment is both embarrassing and comforting for the both of us. Thankfully, he just lets me cry, and doesn't try to console me and tell me it's okay. Because it's not okay. It's really not.  _You are seeing Joe Byrne for the last time._

_Goddamnit, brain! You're only making me cry harder…_

Another minute goes by, and I sniffle and pull away. Byrne gives me an understanding look, and hands me a tissue, both of us ignoring my puffy, red, tear-streaked face, and the giant wet spot on the shoulder of his blue collared shirt. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. I'm done crying now.  _I'm done_. I look Byrne in the eyes, and shake his hand. "Goodbye, Mr. Byrne."

"Thank you for your service, Agent 4-6-7. It's been a pleasure. And goodbye, Ella." I hug him again, quickly this time, grab my suitcase, and stalk out his office.

* * *

I park Ava's car in the driveway of my house.  _For the last time._

_SHUT THE FUCK UP, BRAIN!_

All evidence of crying is gone from my face. I walk inside, and put my other four suitcases into her trunk, and prepare to say goodbye to my family.

I decide that one at a time is the best course of action. James first, because you save the best for last.

I knock on my older brother's bedroom door. "You leaving now, Ella?" He asks as he cracks open the door. I nod. "Well, goodbye, little sister, good luck at college. I'm sure you'll be dad's favorite, even from 3,000 miles away," He reflects, bitterly. It's not my fucking fault that he's such a goddamn disappointment.

I sigh, and hug him quickly, mostly just for show. "Bye James. Good luck at the CIA." There. Quick and painless. The easiest goodbye was over, and the others are going to be freaking impossible, because I actually like the rest of my family.

Ava, next. I'll truly miss her, though we aren't very close anymore. When we were little and training together, we were tight, since we are only a year apart, however, Ava took a desk job in the coding department of HQ, so we've kind of drifted apart after a change in careers. However, I'm glad there's no beef between my older sister and me, which is mainly because we were never in any sort of competition with each other, since I followed our dad's footprints into the field, and she followed our mom's into code analysis. Hell, there was never any competition between James and me either, though he's always resented that I was so much better at both languages and fieldwork.

"Avie," I call out my pet name for my sister, knocking on my sister's door.

"Come in!"

I open the door into her immaculate bedroom, where everything is so neat and organized. I, quite frankly, have no time in my life for trivial things, such as cleaning, so my bedroom tends to be a bit of a mess. Who has time for tidying when you have over 30 fake identities? "Avie, I'm leaving for the airport now. I came in to say goodbye."

"Wait, Ella, before you leave, I have something for you," My sister pulls out and hands me what appears to be a yellow legal pad. It's a little heavier than expected. "Here. I worked with Peters to develop it. It's a way for us to send each other coded messages. I have the same one, and when one of us writes on it, the other can see it. Here, it comes with a special pen than you can erase."

"Thanks so much! It's really great, Avie, you're the best."

"Aww, El," she says, wrapping her arms around my torso.

"Avie, I'm really going to miss you."

"I'll miss you too, Ella, but it won't be so bad. You'll do great in England." I kiss my sister on the cheek.

"Bye, Love," Ava laughs.

"Bye, Ella."

Next, I track down my kid sister, Lilia, who is sitting on her bed, head in her hands, and bawling. "Lili, what's wrong?" I ask, rushing over to comfort her.

"I don't want you to leave me, Ella," she sniffles, "I want you to stay."

"I'm sorry, Lili, but you'll be okay, I promise. You can Skype me every night, if you want to. And besides, you'll still have Christopher." I say, trying to console her.

"It's not the same, you know that. I just wish that you'd stay here with me."

"I know, Lili."

"I love you, Ella, I'll miss you so, so, so much."

"Me too. Bye, Lili."

"Bye, Ella."

I go and find my mother next. She has always been kind to me, though a little distant, as she always had to take care of my other four siblings, while my dad would take care of only me. Being the best, my dad gave me his full attention.

"Ella," she sighs, hugging me, "Your father is heartbroken about you leaving."

"I know, Mom, but I can't do this anymore. I can't keep putting my life on the line, and abandoning my morals, and killing people, and ending up in the hospital."

"I know, honey. Just remember, he did truly believe that this was best for you, so don't judge him too harshly. He really does love you." My mind flicks back to scenes of true manipulation and horrible parenting, like when he sent me off at only 10 years old on my first mission, or when he was never truly able to show me any sort of praise for all that I've accomplished. But then, it goes to when I was little, and how patient he always was, teaching me martial arts, and language, and physical skills, just so I could be like him. My dad and I have always had a complicated relationship, but my mother is right. He really does love me.

"I'll miss you, mom."

She hugs me again, tighter this time. "I know, Ella, but you'll do great at Oxford. You're an amazing person, and you'll achieve great things." She pauses, collecting her thoughts, "Just please, don't spend all of your free time studying languages. Get out, for once, make some friends! Have a real college experience. College is so much fun, and I'd hate to have you miss out one that." I don't know how my mother does it, but she always knows exactly what I'm thinking out.

"Yeah, mom, I totally wasn't planning on learning nine languages in the next four years," I say, as innocently as I can manage. She rolls her eyes.

"Sure you weren't. Remember: have fun, use your instincts, and don't go looking after or creating trouble, just out of sheer boredom."

"Why, mother, I would  _never_ ," I say, dramatically, though that last thing on the list  _does_ sound a lot like me."

"Goodbye, Ella, and good luck. I love you." She says, kissing me on the forehead.

"Bye, Mom, love you too." I sigh.

Leaving the kitchen, I realize how hard these last two goodbyes are going to be. Christopher is my favorite person on this planet, and I almost can't bear to leave him. My dad, oh god, he was always my biggest supporter, though he never showed it. I am not looking forward to leaving either of them. I get a text from my dad, telling me that he and Christopher are waiting in the car to drive me to the airport. I look around my house  _for the last time_ , take a deep breath, and walk out of my old life and into my new one.

* * *

We arrive at the airport. My dad and Christopher, despite my protests, help me with my luggage. They stay with me until security, which I am able to bypass, because Joe Byrne. I hug Christopher first. I am trying so hard not to cry, but I am really struggling, and a solitary tear runs down my left cheek.  _Ella, come on, girl, you can do this. You can hold it together. You are strong. You will survive._ "Goodbye, Christopher," I say, taking a shaky breath, "You always were my favorite." He laughs, and hands me a cyan gift bag. "Christopher? What is this? You didn't have to-"

He cuts me off. "College survival kit, Ellie, open it on the plane," he laughs. We hug again, and say goodbye.

I turn to my dad. "Dad, I don't even know what to say."

"Me neither, Ella."

We stand there for another minute, awkwardly. Now, my dad is the one trying not to let the tears fall down his face, but he is failing, miserably. "If you ever want your old job back, or ever need anything at all-" He starts.

"Dad," I whimper, hugging him.

"Godspeed, Ella," he sighs, and I walk away, never turning back.

* * *

I open Christopher's survival kit on the plane, when my seatmate got up to use the bathroom. Inside was a first aid kit, with a note attached that read:

" _Ellie,_

_Here's something that will help you out if ever you decide to disobey mom and find/create trouble._

_Love,_

_Christopher"_

It's a pretty good gift, with nice intentions, because both Christopher and my mother are right: despite my hatred of the world of espionage, I always manage to find trouble, and when there's no trouble to be found, I create some.

* * *

The Oxford campus is truly beautiful, and it feels so good to be here. I walk to my dorm, after touring the campus, and I just stand in the open doorway with my eyes closed, taking deep breaths, and relishing in the chaos of move-in day.

"Excuse me, but are you Ella Cornell?" A female voice asks from behind me.

I whip around. "Who wants to know?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. The owner of the voice is another girl, who appears to be my age. She is tall, about 5'11; has a Dutch accent; long, straight red hair; and deep blue eyes that looked like little lakes.

She just laughs. "I'm your roommate, if you are Ella. My name is Leah Geneva." she reaches out her right hand, and I shake it.

"Right. Sorry. Nice to meet you, I'm Ella," I say awkwardly. She just laughs again, and I am mesmerized by her eyes. I step out of the way, so she can move her stuff into the dorm room. It's pretty small, with only two bedrooms and a common room with a tv and a mini fridge. My stuff is in a pile at the front of the common room, since I just got here. "Choose a bedroom," I offer. They're identical, and I really don't care which one I get.

* * *

We unpack our things for the next two hours. We both finish at around 4:00pm. "So, Ella, how does ordering Chinese food and introducing ourselves sound?" Suddenly, nothing in the world sounded better than a plate of chicken fried rice, and a friend to share it with.

I nod. "Sounds great," I smile.

An hour later, we were sitting side-by-side on the couch, plates piled high with Chinese food, and just talking. It felt so good to have a real friend, or at least the beginnings of one, to chat with.

* * *

I learn that my roommate, Leah Geneva, is in fact Dutch, and she moved to Oxford from Amsterdam. She's here on a partial sports scholarship, and she's the keeper for the women's soccer team. Her major is psychology. She speaks English, German, and Dutch, and she has one older brother, and one younger sister. "So, tell me about Ella," Leah says. I have been pretty quiet all night, just listening. I smile and begin reciting my cover story. It feels less like a friendship, and more like a mission.

"Well, I moved here from Washington D.C., where I lived with my parents, two brothers, and two sisters. I'm the middle child, too. Let's see," I say, trying to sound genuine. I'm majoring in biology, minoring in geography, and I also speak English, Dutch, and German, as well as Spanish."

"That's pretty impressive that you can speak four languages," Leah considers. I suppress a smile, thinking about how many languages I really speak.

"Yeah, well, I was raised bilingually with English, and Dutch, because my mother is from the Netherlands," I explain. This is actually true about my mom, though I'm not sure why I said it. However, it is partially untrue about how I was raised. I was raised trilingually, with German as well.

* * *

As I lay down in my bed, later that night, I reflect on my conversation with Leah. She's really sweet, funny too, but it doesn't really feel to much like a friendship, not that I even know what a true friendship feels like. It feels like a cover mission, because I have to lie so much, because I don't want to let out the truth about my past, or make anyone suspicious. It still feels weird, unfair, even, that I'm lying to this girl so much on the first day we met.  _Welp_. It's this, or the CIA, and smalltalk is already much better than cold-blooded murder.

* * *

The next day, Leah and I are walking around together, just touring the campus when I hear a muffled scream. I whip my head around, realizing that it was coming from the dumpster behind the mess hall. Leah and I exchange glances, quickly, before running in the direction of the yell.

We arrive, a few seconds later, and realize what's going on. It's a girl, lying on the ground, who, based on the bruise on her head, appears to have just been knocked unconscious. She is topless, and there is a man there, undoing her belt.  _No. No, no, no. This is not going to happen. I am not about to let this girl get assaulted._

"Call 999," I hiss at Leah, "British emergency services. Get a police car and an ambulance."

Throwing all caution to the wind, I run over to the scene, and with a cry, I throw myself at the perpetrator, tackling him off of the poor girl. I have him pinned to the ground in a second, and for a moment, he and I are struggling, before he headbutts me in the nose, causing me to loosen my grip in pain, and starts running.  _I am not about to let him get away with this. Rape is never okay. He is a horrible person, and need to be brought to justice._

Something I call my 'Agent 4-6-7 mode' kicks in. 'Agent 4-6-7 mode' is what I'm like on missions: cold, fast-thinking, and dangerous. I stop at nothing to complete the task at hand, and all of my survival instincts are on overdrive.  _This piece of shit just chose the wrong person to mess with. That poor girl. He is about to feel my fucking wrath._  I roll over twice, before getting up and chasing after him. He isn't too far ahead, and I could easily outrun him and subdue him, but this needs to be something more  _memorable._ Blood dripping down my face, I look around to find something that suits my needs. I finally see it, up ahead, and a twisted plan begins forming in my head. I continue chasing him, purposefully leading him to the left.

All I can think about is bring this evil man to justice.  _Rape is not okay. You must take this fucker down. Ever since-_

We arrive at the gas station, on the outskirts of the campus, which interrupts my train of thought. Using all of my speed, I run ahead of the perp, and shove a £20 note into the nearest gas machine. I grab the trashcan next to me, and taking out the trash bag, I begin filling it with gas. As it's filling, I peek around the machine. He is still running, though a little more slowly now, as he presumably thinks that he's lost me.  _He has never been more wrong in his life. Well, he's been more morally wrong before, as he literally tried to rape a woman after knocking her unconscious._ As soon as the can is filled up, I pick it up, and sprint over to the perp, who is about half-a-mile ahead of me. I get there in about a minute, hatred and adrenaline fueling my run. When I finally get close enough, I shower him with the gasoline inside of the trashcan. This stuns him for a few seconds, allowing me ample time to execute phase two of my plan. I rip off my chunky white belt, the one that doubles as a survival kit, and slice it open, using my ring-knife. I scramble for a second, before my fingers grab hold of a pack of matches.  _Perfect._ The perp is on the ground now, clutching his ankle, having tripped over the trashcan in an escape attempt. I quickly use the trashcan to scoop him up, and putting the trashcan upright again.  _This is working out even better than I ever could have expected._  I quickly light the book of matches, and throw myself sideways, rolling off of the sidewalk, and onto the damp grass. I hear the trashcan go up in flames, before I see it. I stand up, wiping off my hands on my jeans, and admire my handy work.  _Fucking asshole piece of shit got what his sorry excuse for a human self deserved._

* * *

I'm still standing their, smirk on my face, when the police arrive. The fire had been put out about a minute ago, and the man was on the ground, with someone performing CPR on him. "Did you do this?" A young officer demands, incredulously. It's quite obvious who did this, as she's the only one at the scene with a stupid smirk on her face, and she reeks of sweat and gasoline.

"Yes, sir. And I'm glad I did it." I am about to explain the situation to him, but he catches me off guard in all of my cockiness, and in a second, I am in handcuffs. "Wait, what? I just saved a girl from being raped by that horrible man. I did nothing wrong or immoral." And I truly believe that, too.

"Save it, kid," The officer says, "You're coming with me for interrogation, and it's not going to be fun."  _Interrogation? Hah. I passed the CIA's RTI training, which included torture and waterboarding, at age 5. I can take anything that the local police throw at me._

He drags me over to his police car, but I keep my head held up high, knowing that I did the right thing.

* * *

An hour later, I find myself alone in the cold basement of a police station, labeled "Interrogation Room." I figure that I'll be left alone for a while, as an intimidation tactic, so I pull the map of Oxford out of my back pocket, and activate my ring-that-turns-into-a-pen, and begin illustrating, in as much detail as I can, the series of events. Thankfully, I wasn't searched, and nothing was taken from my body. It was very lucky of me to not carry around a knife today, like I usually do, as it would probably only serve to further incriminate me.

* * *

It's two hours later, when two men in gray suits come into the basement. They question me about my identity and what happened. For my identity, I lie fluently through my teeth, using my college cover story, and as for the events, I explain in as much detail as I can, using the map with drawings to further explain myself. They seem to accept my story, but say that they need to interview witnesses and review CCTV tape to see if my story checks out. This makes sense to me.

I am moved into another room, this one is small and square, containing a cot with a threadbare blanket, and a solitary dresser with a glass of water. I don't trust this water, so I ignore it, and I begin searching every inch of the room. There is one singular camera, but it's unreachable on the ceiling, and I do find three bugs, which I stomp loudly with the heel of my combat boots, just to fuck with whoever's listening.

They leave me in their overnight, before another man, different from the ones who interrogated me, shows up to collect me. I have been raised as a spy since birth, and trained to remember every little detail, but this man has a truly forgettable face. I could probably see it again, an hour from now, and legitimately believe I'm seeing it for the first time.  _Great quality of a spy_.

"Hello, miss," the man with the forgettable face greets me in a posh London accent, "My name is John Crawley. It's nice to meet you, Ella, or should I say Agent 4-6-7?" My face pales.  _How the hell? What? Who?_ My brain can scarcely form a coherent thought. I am truly at a loss for words. I've been in England for less than 72 hours, and already, someone has figured out my true identity.

"Agent Who?" I ask, trying to convince him that I'm not who he thinks I am. This is a last ditch effort, however, as he clearly is a government official of some sort with a wealth of knowledge about me and my past.  _Fuck_. "My name is Ella Cornell, and I'm just a student at Oxford. Today is only my second day on campus. Who is this agent you speak of?" I channel years and years worth of acting classes as I try my hardest to plead my case. I can bullshit with the best of them, my dad made sure of that much, and I need to use all of my mental resources claim innocence. I don't know who this John Crawley is, or what he wants, but it can't be good for me, if he knows my other name.

"You're act is very convincing, 4-6-7, but I know you are lying to me." He says, his voice perfectly level.

"Lying? About what? You can go to Oxford and ask. I really am just a student there," I plead, allowing my voice to fill with hysteria. I need him to see me as a scared young woman, not a threat.

"Oh, I believe you go to Oxford, though, you're lying about your identity, 4-6-7."

"Who is this 4-6-7?" I demand, frustrated and hysterical. Though my voice and demeanor were far from it, my thought process was calm, cool, and collected. I was, however, freaking out just a little. My internal alarm bells were going off at John Crawley and his cryptic information. "I  _am_  Ella Cornell, I swear, if you can just take me back to my dorm room, I can show you my papers. I have an American birth certificate, my passport, and my education visa. I promise you, sir, that I'm just Ella Cornell, a college student!"

Jon Crawley laughs, though it's a gruff a humorless sound. " _Just_  Ella Cornell?" He challenges, "Well, according to your 'precious dorm room,' you are also Azita Jan Arman, Yasmine Habib, Augustina Torres, Charlotte Williams, Lucie Vertonghen, Yarah Oliveira, Alice Thibault, Huang Mei Lan, Isabella Moreno, Bura Mandžukić, Juanita de la Cruz, Kamilah Antar, Laila Arquette, Greta Müller, Avanti Parikh, Sari Hasanputri, Hadara Seif, Yetta Blum, Elisabetta Rossi, Miko Miyamoto, Sonia Meyer, Adana Musa, Yolanda Rivera, Noorje De Vries, Viktoriya Petrov, Teodora Mitrović, Ardo Sharif, Elna Bekker, Valentina Ramos, Zuna Adank, Sanoh Bunnag, Elham Khan, Julie Thompson, Amelia Richmond, Meredith Evans, Natalie Abbott, and Agent 4-6-7." He lists off all of my identities flawlessly and clinically, without even taking a breath. At this point, I am fucking terrified.  _Who the hell is John Crawley, and what the fuck does he want?_

There's no point in lying anymore. John Crawley knows exactly who I am. Everyone I am. "H-How?" I stutter, equal parts terrified and perplexed.

"You identities were in a suitcase under your bed. You might want to hide them better, next time. We searched your dorm room, by the way, and we got suspicious when we found the identification papers of 37 woman. Some research and a few lengthy, yet informative, conversations later, we discovered a bombshell. Agent 4-6-7, in all her glory, was right here, on British soil, setting people on fire."

"He was trying to rape someone!" I protest, attempting to change the subject.

"I am well aware. We would have arrested him, if you hadn't killed him."  _The perp is dead?_  I file away that interesting piece of information.

"Serves the fucker right," I mumble.

"Anyways, 4-6-7," John Crawley continues, "You are under arrest for the murder of Paul David Duncan."

"Let's see how that holds up in a court of law!" I protest, "Imagine the outrage when the young college student who heroically risked her life and prevented the rape of an innocent young woman goes to prison."

"Imagine the outrage," John Crawley says, levelly, "When the American public finds out the CIA is using child spies. Your father, Joe Byrne, they will be ruined."

My face goes pale.  _No. No. No. This is cannot be happening._  I look John Crawley in the eyes, defeated. "Is there anything I can do to get out of this? I can tell you want something. Spill it."

"I want you to come and speak with my boss and I. Just a little business meeting, nothing more."

I raise my eyebrow, suspiciously. "Just  _one_  little business meeting, and you'll let me go?" I challenge, "Who do you even work for, anyway?"

"One little business meeting will discuss the arrangements behind your release. And you'll find out my employer in good time, Ella."

* * *

And with that, I am sitting in the back of a black bullet-proof car with none other than John Crawley.

The drive takes about two hours, as there is a lot of traffic. We are in London, now. We turn onto Liverpool street, and pull up to a tall building, advertising itself as the 'Royal and General Bank.'

"Did you bring me here to sell me a loan?" I say, sarcastically, "Because the CIA is already paying for college." John Crawley rolls his eyes and leads me out of the car, and into the bank. We walk past the tellers and security guards, and into an elevator, where he presses the button labeled '15.'

* * *

Fifteen floors up and a short walk later, and I find myself in an office, sitting across from a black woman with drab hair and a silver brooch, who is sucking on a peppermint. "Hello Ella," she greets me. Her voice is sickly-sweet. "My name is Mrs. Jones. You've met my deputy, John Crawley. It seems to me that you are in a bit of a legal predicament. You have officially been arrested for the murder of a man called Paul David Duncan."

"Technically," I interrupt her, lifting up my feet and placing them on her desk like I do with Joe Byrne, "I have no proof that he's dead."

"Well," she sighs, "You and Crawley can take a trip to the morgue when we're finished up here. Anyways, 4-6-7, the way I see it is you have three options. One, you plead guilty of 2nd degree murder, and rot in jail for the rest of your miserable life. Two, you take the case to trial. If you lose, you rot in jail for the rest of your miserable life. If you win, we release everything we know about Ella Cornell, Agent 4-6-7, and the CIA to the American public. Three, you work for us."

"Work for you?" I splutter, "Who the hell even are you?"

"All in good time, Agent 4-6-7," Mrs. Jones promises, "Anyway, what'll it be?"

"I can't agree to work for you if you don't tell me who you are."

"I'll tell you who we are after you sign this contract," She says, thrusting a paper and pen in front of me.

"All this says it that I'll work for you on one singular occasion, starting three weeks from now," I read, puzzled, "If I choose not to, I suffer the penalty of life imprisonment, and all information that you have about me to be released to the American public. This is blackmail," I realize.

"Just sign the paper, Ella," She says,. It goes against my better judgment, but I sign the stupid contract, curious about what will happen.  _Eh, what the hell. It's better than prison._ "

"Great, thank you Ella. Now, let me explain. We are with the British Intelligence Service. MI6, to be precise." My face falls as I realize how badly I've been played.  _Holy fucking shit._

"You're fucking hypocrites!" I protest, "If you were to release any information about the CIA using child agents, they would release similar information about  _you fuckers_  doing the exact same fucking thing! And now, I'm stuck in a fucking contract with you lying bastards, or else I'll be thrown in jail to rot for the rest of my miserable life. Fuck."

Jones replies. "That just about sums it up, though I personally would have sworn less." I give her my very best resting bitch face, and flip her off.

She starts talking about my mission, but is soon interrupted by a blaring alarm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter ever at 24 pages!
> 
> Oh heck, that table of Ella's secret identities took forever. It was fun, though!
> 
> Hell yes, we love setting rapists on fire! (I got the idea from Grey's Anatomy)
> 
> What did you think of this chapter? What do you think will happen to Ella? Are you surprised at how quickly she got mixed up with MI6? Her dad sure isn't…
> 
> Please, leave me a review if you liked this chapter!
> 
> Also, BIG NEWS! We are planning an Alex Rider big bang! For news, updates, and information, follow alexriderbigbang on tumblr!


	8. Welcome to Womanhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, welcome, welcome!
> 
> The last three chapters have been a lot of Ella, so in this chapter, we finally get Alex's POV again!
> 
> I'm going to post the next chapter this weekend, as I wrote it simultaneously with this chapter. However, after that, updating will become much less frequent, as I have PSATs, tons of homework, and a lot of competition stuff coming up. I also have to split what little free time I have between this and the big bang, which has an actual deadline. I will update when I can, but the chapters won't be coming in as quickly as usual.
> 
> Disclaimer: Alex Rider belongs to the OG, Anthony Horowitz

**Alex:**

An alarm blares in the smallest bedroom of a modest Chelsea home.

Alex Rider groans as he rolls over, shutting off his alarm clock. He has no motivation to wake up today. It's Thursday, the day of his  _fun_  chats with Mrs. Tulip Jones. This will be the third week in a row he'll have the pleasure of discussing his subconscious with Tulip. The first session ended badly. It lasted about 10 minutes. After eight straight minutes of the two parties just staring each other down, Jones had asked her employee the root of his psychological issues, to which Alex dryly responded "MI6." When asked to expand upon his answer, he said, "You have files. Start on John Rider, before making your way to Helen, and then Ian, before finally starting on mine. I'm  _sure_  you'll find something," and promptly got up and left her office.

The second meeting hardly went any better. Mrs. Jones had brought Ben in with them, to see if a third, more neutral party would help Alex to open up. This, however, backfired, as Alex didn't want Ben to learn about his past. The last thing that the teenage spy needed was for another person to be on his case about his family and Scorpia.

* * *

Alex got ready slowly. He didn't want to get to the Royal and General bank any earlier than he had to.  _College starts soon_  he realized,  _Then, I'll only have to go to the bank for mission assignments. Thank god…_

* * *

An hour later, Alex is standing in front of the bank, considering the large sidewalk discoloration in front of him. He didn't much care for the front entrance, as this was where he had gotten shot. He was glad, that in a week's time, he wouldn't be forced to walk through it regularly. He took a deep breath and walked inside.

He clicks the elevator button labeled 13, _unlucky_ , he realizes and nods at another agent whom he vaguely recognized.

He trudges from the elevator to his office. Thankfully, his clearance level is high enough for him to have his own office, as we would have hated sharing.

For the past three days, Alex has been writing detailed descriptions of his missions for Tulip to put in his file. As the clock clicks closer to 3:00, Alex is writing the mission in which he infiltrated the Snakeheads and Major Winston Yu, and an evil idea begins forming in his mind.

* * *

He takes the elevator down to Smithers' room. The man had decided to come back to his old job after a 6-month Caribbean vacation and was back in his fat suit.

"Mr. Smithers," Alex announced, wryly.

"Alex, old bean, how can I help you? Jones didn't tell me to prepare anything for you today."

"No, I'm here on my own accord. See, I'm mad at Tulip and her bullshit therapy sessions. I don't have the patience today to deal with her. So, what I'm thinking is we get back at her through a good old-fashioned prank." Alex winks.

"Hmmmm," Smithers considers, before a wide smile appears on his pudgy face, "Yes, I see. Anything, in particular, you have in mind?"

"Remember when you…" Alex says, outlining his downright disgusting plan to the gadget master.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, with a cardboard box in hand, and a gas mask on his face, Alex set to work. This plan was the perfect mix of harmless and downright nefarious. Luckily for Alex, the legitimate part of the bank had a different vent system than the MI6 part of the bank. He didn't want the actual bankers and customers to get hurt in his prank against MI6. He takes the elevator up to the 12th floor, where all of the lower-level agents work. He goes to a secluded part of the hallway, and, standing on a chair, began unscrewing the vent cover. Alex had remembered back in Thailand when Smithers had mentioned vomit-inducing incense. Alex figured that this would put the "bank" into enough disarray to allow him to go home for the day without his impromptu therapy session with the one and only Tulip Jones. If his plan worked properly, the incense would travel throughout the "bank's" vents, causing everyone to throw up.

He was thankful that Smithers had two gas masks in his office. It wouldn't be pleasant if either he or his only ally in MI6 also threw up.

* * *

He had just light the incense when blaring loud alarm bells off. Three men in biohazard suits similar to the ones he, Sabina, Cray, and Yassen had once worn, stormed him. Two of them grabbed Alex by the arms and legs, while the third attempted to put out the incense. It was too late, however, as Alex already heard retching noises from the room next door. He smirked at the thought. The two men holding Alex dragged him up the stairs and into the office of MI6's ever-lovely leader. She looked pissed. Across from her was a girl who looked just a little younger than he was. Her legs were crossed, and she was resting her feet on Jones' desk.

"We just caught this  _degenerate_  burning incense into the vents. We fear he's trying to poison the entire office. Do you know who this is?" One of the men holding Alex demanded.

Mrs. Jones groaned. "Yes, Mr. Robertson," she says, addressing the man who had spoken, "Leave him here. You two are dismissed. Crawley, follow them." The men left her office. "And you," she growled, turning to Alex, "Sit down. You have some explaining to do."

Alex sat down next to the mystery girl. He was just about to defend himself, when he was interrupted by the girl swinging her feet off of Jones' desk, leaning over Jones' trashcan, and throwing up into it. She stands up and wipes her mouth with a tissue from the box on Jones' desk. "What the hell was that?" she asks, clearly puzzled, "What's going-" Her little monologue is interrupted by Jones grabbing the same trashcan, and performing a similar action. "What's going on?" The girl demands, "Why is everyone throwing up? And why," she questions, turning to Alex, "Are you wearing a gas mask? Did you just poison us? Who the hell are you?" she demanded, inching closer to Alex. She looked about ready to snap and kill him. Alex looked up at her. Despite the snarl on her face, the girl was actually kind of pretty, the raw, natural kind of pretty that she was born with, but wasn't trying to emphasize. She had long brown hair, tied back in a braid that rested on her right shoulder, and mesmerizing, piercingly bright green eyes. She spoke in a slow and intimidating manner as if she knew she was in charge. She sounded distinctly American, but there was something in her accent that Alex simply couldn't place. German, maybe? It smoothly weaved its way in and out of her voice, increasing as she got more passionate and emotional. Alex could feel the authority and control radiating off of this girl, despite her being almost 20 centimeters shorter than him.

"Well," Alex starts.

However, he is interrupted by a fuming Tulip Jones. "What the hell, Alex, what did you do? You didn't poison the building, did you?" She looked a little nervous, as if she was scared of what she created.

"I thought you said you'd swear less," the girl mumbled, flippantly at Tulip, a smirk on her face.

Mrs. Jones ignored her. "Alex," she demands.

The spy just rolls his eyes. What a scene this is. A girl, standing over him, fuming; Tulip Jones, who is failing miserably to hide her terror; and a trashcan full of two people's vomit. "Well," he begins, trying to match the girl's nonchalance at Tulip, "I didn't poison anybody. I just used one of Mr. Smithers' gadgets, that's all." He tried his level best to sound innocent.

"Can you expand on that?" Tulip demands, clearly impatient.

"Of course, anything for you, Tulip," he says smoothly. He notices the girl trying to hide a smile at Jones' name. "Remember the incense from Thailand?"

Jones sunk back in her chair, annoyed at the nuisance that this situation had become. Now that she had learned that the situation was just a harmless prank, she was less scared but considerably more annoyed. "Really, Alex? What made you think that this was a good idea? Are you insane?"

"Well, you seem to think so, Tulip," Alex remarked.

Realization dawned on Tulip, "No. Alex, no. You did not light that wretched incense just to get out of our conversation." Her accusation was met with only a smirk. "Alexander John Rider, you are a liability!" Tulip roars. Alex had never seen this side of her before. However, he was even more nervous when he saw a downright evil smirk appear on her face. "Alex, meet fou-"

"Ella," the girl, who finally has a name interrupted, quickly, "My  _name_  is Ella."

"Yes, right," Tulip recovers, "Alex, meet Ella, your new  _partner_."

"What?" Ella demands, whipping around to face Tulip, "First you blackmail me into your stupid contract, and now you're assigning me a partner who TRIED TO KILL ME," She roars. Alex tenses up. This girl could be scary.

Tulip chuckles, humorlessly, "Alex didn't try to kill you, Ella, he has no idea who you are. The vomiting thing was just a prank, directed at me. You two should be fine to work together."

"Tulip, who even is this girl? I don't...what does she know? What are we partners for?"

Mrs. Jones grins evilly, "Yes. Yes, this is perfect, actually. You guys are one in the same, and you don't even know it," She says, cryptically.

Ella considers this for half of a second before speaking. "Wait," she said, pointing at Alex, "You're MI6's child agent!"

Alex is 50% confused, 50% curious, and 100% scared-shitless. "What? Who _are_  you?"

"I'm you," Ella says, simply, "If you were female and American."

Alex is still puzzled and tired of Tulip and Ella's cryptic nature. "What? What does that even mean? Who are you?"

Ella sits back down, arrogantly. She swings her feet purposefully back onto Jones' desk. It was clear that she enjoyed being in charge. "I'm Ella Cornell," she projects, slowly and clearly, and with a smirk on her face, "And you're Alex Rider, and we're in the same situation."

This gave Alex no new information, except for the girl's last name. He is still confused and yearning for more information. "Could you please explain to me what the hell is going on?" He says, through clenched teeth.

"One minute," the girl promises. Turning back to Tulip, she says "Mrs. Jones, I need my phone back. I'd like to call my boss to know what information I can divulge. Otherwise, I'll be forced to escape, and neither of us wants that." She was calm, cool, and collected. Power and control radiate off her. She said it with enough of a dangerous lilt in her voice, that Tulip warily complies. Alex was amused by her nonchalance with Tulip. Her complete lack of fucks to give really reminded him of himself, especially when he was younger. Alex still had no idea who this girl was, but it was easy to tell that she had experience. Experience, and balls.

Tulip nods and pulls out an iPhone from her desk drawer. Handing it to Ella, she points her into the direction of an empty conference room.

* * *

40 minutes later, Ella returns to Tulip's office. "Great to see you again," Alex mumbles, sarcastically. He felt as bored as he looked

"I'm good," Ella tells Jones and Alex, cryptically, "My boss knows about everything.".

"Are you going to give me any information about yourself at all? Because it seems unfair that you know so much about me, and I only know your name." Alex was getting sick of Ella's cryptic bullshit.

"All in good time, Alex," Ella was truly a master at giving answers-that-weren't-really-answers.

Jones just nodded and began to explain the mission. "You two are going to be sent, as mission partners to Austin, Texas."

"Texas?" Ella interrupts, "Shouldn't this be a CIA job, then? It is America, after all."

"This man we are investigating, Todd Eldridge, is a British citizen, and has been in our attention for a few years now," Tulip explains, "Anyways, he is now the principal of Truman Elementary School. In this particular school, seven children have up and vanished in the past two months. The parents are freaking out, and pulling their children from school. While it may just be your run-of-the-mill serial killer, it's too coincidental that they're all from the same school. Additionally,-"

"Jesus Christ, another child sex ring," Ella says under her breath.

Alex looks over at her, feeling concerned about this girl's well-being. What did she mean by another child sex ring, he thought, and what happened with the first one? Who the hell even is this girl, because she has clearly been through some shit. "Um, Ella, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," She says, not answering the concerned spy's question.

"Anyways, if you'd be so kind as to stop interrupting me, here at MI6, we don't believe in coincidences."

Alex suppressed a snort. "Yeah," Alex mumbles pointedly, "Unless they involve international pop stars." He was, quite obviously, referring to Damian Cray, and the almost-disaster known as Eagle Strike.

Jones ignores him. "I'm sending you too undercover to investigate the school. You're a little young, but some makeup and the right outfit will age you both a couple years. Alex, you'll be undercover as a 4th-grade teacher, and Ella, you'll be undercover as a secretary."

"Wow, Tulip, sexist much?" Ella asks her, defiantly, "Make the woman be the secretary, why don't you. I want to be a teacher, too."

"We need to have someone stationed near the principal's office," Jones sighs, "Just, please, cooperate with me."

"You wanted me to work for you, Tulip," Ella rebukes, "I'll sit down and shut up for the rest of your little spiel, as long as I can help with Alex's and I's covers. I always did back at the, um, my former occupation, and I was damn good at it." Her voice was daring Tulip to say no. Alex was confused, though increasingly more intrigued, by Ella.

Mrs. Jones sighs. "Fine, but only if you shut up for the rest of my speech." Ella seems to agree to this, as she does stop talking.

"What do I get out of this, Mrs. Jones?" Alex asked, innocently, his eyes wide. He's just screwing with her because he wants to see her squirm.

"You get a regular paycheck, Alex, now please, let me speak." She takes a deep breath. "You two will be investigating Todd Eldridge and his shady elementary school, and you will be reporting back to us on your findings. We don't know what is going on with these children going missing, but we are determined to figure it out. Any questions?"

"No, ma'am," Alex said, politely.

Ella clearly does. She begins protesting her role in the mission. Deja vu, Alex thinks. "Yes. Now that you have him, do you even need me anymore? Can't Alex just complete this mission while I go back to school?"

Alex snorted and began to cackle. This was truly one of the funniest, most ironic things he'd ever heard."You really think," he said, wheezing, "That Tulip gives a singular shit about your schooling? When I was 14, I missed more school than I attended because of MI6."

Tulip ignores Alex's outburst, much to his dismay. "We have a contract, Ella. You signed it."

"Yeah, that's a bullshit contract. I could sic the CIA on your asses. Is that what you want?" Wait, CIA? Alex thinks, glad to finally have some information about this mystery of a girl.

"Wait," Alex interrupts, "You're CIA?" Ella nods. "Do you know a Mr. Byrne?"

"Yeah, I've seen him around," I say, casually, not wanting to draw unwanted attention to myself. I hear Mrs. Jones snort. Obviously, this girl knows more than she's willing to say. "So, anyways Tulip, would you like to feel the wrath of the entire CIA? I could get them to take you fuckers down, no questions asked. You know who's in charge over there," Alex threatens

"Yes, Ella," Jones says, cooly, "But what about your suitcase?" Suitcase? Alex wonders.

"What do you mean?" Ella demands. Clearly, Tulip had struck a nerve with her. Intentionally.

"You know, that little suitcase that Crawley found under your bed. Well, you can refuse to work for us, but we keep the suitcase. If, however, you choose to go to Texas with Alex and complete the mission, it's all yours."

"That is blackmail!" Ella yells back.

"That never stopped Jonesy before," Alex says flippantly. He wondered what exactly this suitcase contained. Something incriminating, obviously.

"Which will it be, Ella?"

"Fine," Ella says, randomly switching into a Southern drawl, "Guess I'll see y'all in Texas."

Jones smiles, very pleasantly. However, it appears to Alex as though she is baring her teeth. "Very well. You have until tomorrow to work with MI6 to develop yours and Alex's covers. After that, since you aren't flying to Texas for another three weeks, you two will go up to Wales for more training. Specifically, the Brecon Beacons for SAS training."

"Tulip, what the bloody hell!?" Alex explodes, "That's some Alan Blunt shit right there." He was not about to go back to the Brecon Beacons and be bullied. Again. And he definitely wasn't going to subject Ella to the same horrible treatment he had to endure.

"A great leader," Tulip says, just to spite him.

"Tulip, let me remind you, that I set a man on fire because he tried to rape a complete stranger. Just imagine what will happen if I'm the victim," Jesus Christ, Alex thinks, She did what? That's equally badass and empowering. And terrifying too, if you're a rapist.

"I'm sure you'll be fine, Ella, you have years of training, and Alex here to protect you." She said, nonchalant. Alex froze. He didn't want Ella to get hurt, but being forced to be her bodyguard? He felt as though Tulip was patronizing the both of them.

Ella's bright green eyes filled with fury and rage. She glanced at Alex as if asking his permission to go off on Tulip. Alex nods, not wanting to get in her way. "I DON'T NEED A MAN FOR PROTECTION!" she screams, "What I need is to not put myself in middle of another goddamn testosterone-filled army camp. What I need is for you to not disregard my safety and well being. Is that how you treat all of your agents? You literally just discounted my fears of being sexually assaulted, and put the onus of my protection on Alex. You treat him like shit, by the way. Anyways, how can you call yourself a woman when you treat me like that! I cannot believe you. In the CIA, my health and safety were always put first. You call yourself the 'good guys,' but you can't even offer the people you blackmail into working for you the basic feeling of health and safety! This is complete and utter bullshit, Mrs. Jones." Ella is upset, and Alex understands. Though he's never dealt with the struggles of being a woman in the world of espionage, as Ella has, he can at least respect that there is a struggle.

"You're right," Mrs. Jones sighs, "That was really insensitive of me. I, unfortunately, do still have to send you, though, because MI6 legally requires army work before employment."

"First of all, this is blackmail bullshit that we can sweep right under the table. Second of all, I am technically a Green Beret, so I have army experience," Ella protests. Alex racked his brain, before remembering that the Green Berets were sort of like America's SAS.

"British army service, and besides, after the whole Alan Blunt scandal, using underage agents," Alex shudders at the memories as they come rushing back to him, all at once, "We have to be completely clear and transparent with the rest of the government." Bullshit, Alex thinks. Tulip is definitely still tricking this girl, but it's obvious that Ella will never win this argument.

"So I have no choice in the matter," Ella groans. Tulip shakes her head.

"I can, however, give you your own separate sleeping quarters and bathroom," She offers.

"Yes. Throw in the video footage of me setting that prick on fire, and the permission to murder anyone who intends to inflict harm on me, and we have a deal."

She raises an eyebrow. "Deal, but try to save murder as a last resort. These men have been vetted, and it is likely that nothing will happen to you. However, your safety is first, because the entire CIA will truly bring down a shitstorm if anything happens to you. Use your judgment, Ella." Alex was quite frankly a little bit terrified of Ella's judgment, but he kept those thoughts to himself.

"Deal," Ella and Jones shake hands. Alex feels frazzled about what just happened. "Welcome to womanhood," Ella says, sarcastically, "It's a wonderful place." Alex can only nod. He is clearly intimidated by Ella and her sheer force of will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me motivated to post more chapters ;)
> 
> Also, BIG NEWS! We are planning an Alex Rider big bang! For news, updates, signups, and information, follow alexriderbigbang on Tumblr!


	9. Pizza and Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! It's been forever! I've had so much work the past few weeks, and I've really missed writing for you! Thanks to everyone who stuck around!
> 
> Here is Ella's POV of the last chapter. The chapters won't usually be so repetitive, but this is an important scene, so you needed both her and Alex's perspectives. [This chapter is being reposted, after thorough editing and rewriting]
> 
> This is where shit starts to get real…
> 
> TW: Mentions of sexual assault. Lots of trauma/dealing with past trauma. Things get kind of political.
> 
> Disclaimer: Anything recognizable does not belong to me.

**Ella:**

About a minute after the alarms start, two men wearing full-body biohazard suits come rushing into Mrs. Jones' office, with a boy in tow. He is wearing a gas mask, so I don't get a clear look at his face. I do however notice his long, blonde hair spilling over the top.

One of the men holding the blonde boy begins shouting at Mrs. Jones. "We just caught this degenerate burning incense into the vents. We fear he's trying to poison the entire office. Do you know who this is?"  _Poison? What the hell is going on at MI6? Was I the target? How do more people know who I am?_

Mrs. Jones groans. "Yes, Mr. Robertson," she says, addressing the man who had spoken, "Leave him here. You two are dismissed. Crawley, follow them." The men in the biohazard suits leave her office, with Crawley following behind them. I'm not sorry to see him go. The boy stands up. There's something strangely familiar about him. He is tall, probably 6 foot, and he has searing, intelligent brown eyes that have clearly seen too much. He is kind of cute, with his blonde hair mussed up from the gas mask he is still wearing. "And you," she growls, turning to the boy, who is grinning, sheepishly, "Sit down. You have some explaining to do."  _Why is he smiling? This bastard just tried to poison us all!_ His eyes scanned the room as if he was searching for any discrepancies or threats. By that move alone, I can tell that he has a least some experience in the intelligence field. As if he suddenly decides it is safe, he begins walking toward the chair next to me. His movements are fluid and graceful, as though he is a dancer. I suppress a shudder when I realize what he reminded me of: a Scorpia assassin. I've had a few encounters with Scorpia, and none of them were pleasant. I eye him, warily. I don't know who this is, nor do I trust him.

My stomach lurches. All of a sudden, I am feeling really ill. I quickly swing my feet off of Jones's desk, and stick my face into the trashcan next to her desk, and begin throwing up, violently. I feel horrible.  _Throwing up truly is the worst…_

However, almost as quickly as the sickness came, it left once again, and I was left, feeling fine, though upset. I stand up and wipe my vomit-covered mouth with a tissue from the box on Jones' desk. "What the hell was that?" I demand. I am confused about why Mrs. Jones is so calm about this person who just poisoned me. "What's going-" My question is interrupted when Jones grabs the same trashcan,  _gross_ , and vomits just as I did.  _He is_  not _about to get away with this. This is not okay. You can't just poison people and get away with it. What's happening to me? Am I going to die? Why the hell does MI6 have fucking Scorpia assassins going around and poisoning their headquarters? Wait. Is this actually a trap? Is this even MI6? Is everyone around me an imposter looking to kill me? I need to solve this. Now._  "What's going on?" I demand, "Why is everyone throwing up? And why," I ask, turning to the assassin, "Are you wearing a gas mask? Did you just poison us? Who the hell are you?" I demand, inching closer to him.  _I am_ this _fucking close to ending his life._  I change into a smooth, ice-cold persona, attempting to show my power and authority.  _I know 74 ways to kill this prick with my bare hands._  I begin going through the list mentally when the assassin speaks again.

"Well," he begins. He speaks in a British accent. It sounds like he's upper-class, Chelsea, maybe, with a hint of something else I can't quite place.

However, he is interrupted by a fuming Mrs. Jones. "What the hell, Alex, what did you do? You didn't poison the building, did you?" She looks scared.  _Goddamn, even_  I  _can hide my emotions better than her._

It was funny, in an ironic sort of way, to hear her swear.  _Fucking hypocrite._  "I thought you said you'd swear less," I mumble with a smirk. Humor and sarcasm, I've found, are some of the best ways to avoid questions, and distract from other things. I really don't want Mrs. Jones to piss this assassin, who now has a name, off. I want to question him myself.

Much to my dismay, Mrs. Jones just ignores me. "Alex," she demands.

Alex just rolls his eyes. "Well," he begins, "I didn't poison anybody. I just used one of Mr. Smithers' gadgets, that's all." He was clearly trying to feign ignorance. It really wasn't working.  _Why the hell isn't he in handcuffs, and who the hell is Mr. Smithers?_

"Can you expand on that?" Mrs. Jones demands impatiently.

"Of course, anything for you, Tulip," he says smoothly.  _Tulip! Her name is Tulip! That's freaking hilarious._  I try my best to hide a smile, but it's rather difficult. "Remember the incense from Thailand?"

"Really, Alex? What made you think that this was a good idea? Are you insane?" Jones was pissed.

"Well, you seem to think so, Tulip."  _What does that even mean?_

Jones is yelling now. "No. Alex, no. You did not light that wretched incense just to get out of our conversation." Her accusation was met with only a smirk. "Alexander John Rider, you are a liability!" Tulip roars.  _Rider? Now, where have I heard that name before?_  An evil smirk appears on Tulip's face. "Alex, meet fou-"  _Shit. Wait. She is not about to give my spy identity to the random maybe-assassin. This cannot happen. I don't even know who this is, let alone trust him._

"Ella," I butt in, trying to keep my identity a secret, "My name is Ella." 'Ella,' could be anybody. '4-6-7,' however...

"Yes, right," Mrs. Jones recovers, "Alex, meet Ella, your new partner."

 _Partner? What the fuck? Hell will freeze over before I go on a mission with this guy. He tried to murder me! He walks like a goddamn Scorpia assassin! I know nothing about him!_  "What?" I shriek, whipping around to face Mrs. Jones, "First you blackmail me into your stupid contract, and now you're assigning me a partner who TRIED TO KILL ME," I roar.

Jones chuckles, humorlessly, "Alex didn't try to kill you, Ella, he has no idea who you are. The vomiting thing was just a prank, directed at me. You two should be fine to work together." I huff.  _I like pranking intelligence officers as much as anyone, but this is a little far. You have to admire the craft, though..._

Alex speaks up again. "Tulip, who even is this girl? I don't...what does she know? What are we partners for?"

Mrs. Jones grins evilly, "Yes. Yes, this is perfect, actually. You guys are one and the same, and you don't even know it," She says, cryptically.

 _One and the same...Holy shit!_  "Wait," I exclaim, realizing who Alex was, "You're MI6's child agent!"  _I can't believe I hadn't realized this before!_

Alex looks petrified. "What? Who are you?"

"I'm you," I say, simply, "If you were female and American." Now, it's my turn to fuck with this kid, and boy, is it fun.

"What? What does that even mean? Who are you?" His struggle was honestly amusing, and I fully intended to capitalize on it for my own personal amusement. I could tell that Alex wasn't someone who squirmed easily.

I sit back down, arrogantly. To show my authority and nonchalance, I swing my feet slowly back onto Jones' desk. "I'm Ella Cornell," I announce, slowly and clearly, with a smirk twisted onto my face, "And you're Alex Rider, and we're in the same situation."

"Could you please explain to me what the hell is going on?" He says, through clenched teeth.

"One minute," I promise. Before I can divulge any information, I need to talk to my dad, and maybe Byrne. Turning back to Tulip, I say "Mrs. Jones, I need my phone back. I'd like to call my boss to know what information I can divulge. Otherwise, I'll be forced to escape, and neither of us wants that." I make my voice sound calm, yet dangerous so that Jones has no choice but to comply.

Tulip nods and pulls out my cell phone from her top left desk drawer. Handing it to me, she points me into the direction of an empty conference room.

* * *

 

I completely ignore where she wants me to talk, as I'm totally sure that it's bugged. Instead, I leave the building and walk a few streets away to a little cafe. I sit down in a chair against the wall, as though I waiting for someone, and dial my dad's number.

"Ella!" He exclaims, picking up after just two rings, "Fancy hearing from you, finally." He sounds pissed and a little sarcastic.

"I'm really sorry, Dad. There's been a bit of a situation." We are speaking English, though quietly, as I don't want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself.

"What the hell, Ella, you've literally been there 48 hours. How did you already find yourself in a 'situation?'"

I recount the story of me setting a rapist on fire. Unsurprisingly, my dad is totally understanding and has no qualms with what I did.

"So, what exactly is your situation?" He questions me.

"Well, after the police showed up, I was taken in for questioning. Then, someone searched my dorm room, and found my suitcase full of identities, and decided to do a little research. I know it was stupid not to hide them better, but I was literally at Oxford for 18 hours, and never had a chance. Anyways, I was linked to 4-6-7, and MI6 showed up. Ever met John Crawley? Lovely bloke. So then, I was taken to the Royal and General Bank, which is their HQ, and I met the ever-lovely Tulip Jones, and MI6's child agent, Alex Rider. Oh, also, I somehow got roped into a one-mission contract with them and Alex is my partner," I say that last part quickly.

"Jesus, Ella, I don't even know where to-Wait.  _Rider_?"

"Yes, Dad, Rider."

My dad sighs. I know this is bringing back some painful memories for him. "So, you want to know how much you can tell him?"

"Pretty much."

"Well, I've talked to Byrne, and Alex is just as loyal and as trustworthy as any Rider, so use your judgement."

"Thanks, Dad," I sigh. I didn't realize how weird it felt to not be living with my family anymore.

"So," he says, changing the subject. "You're caught up with MI6, and only after two days."

"Yes, Dad, I realize the irony. You were right, I do always manage to find trouble."

"I know, Ella,"

"Bye, Dad,"

"I love you. Godspeed, Ella." I hang up the phone.

_Rider. Goddammit, I can't believe it._

* * *

I walk back into Jones' office about 40 minutes after I left.

"Great to see you again," Alex mumbles, sarcastically. He looks bored.

"I'm good," I inform the both of them, "My boss knows about everything."

"Are you going to give me any information about yourself at all? Because it seems unfair that you know so much about me, and I only know your name." Alex's annoyance was actually pretty amusing.

"All in good time, Alex," I say, just to piss him off.

Jones just nods, allowing us to figure our own shit out, and begins to explain the mission. "You two are going to be sent, as partners, to Austin, Texas for your mission."

"Texas?" I interrupt, confused, "Shouldn't this be a CIA job, then?"  _It_  is  _America, after all._

"This man we are investigating, Todd Eldridge, is a British citizen and has been in our attention for a few years now. Anyways, he is now the principal of Truman Elementary School. In this particular school, seven children have up and vanished without a trace in the past two months. The parents are freaking out, and pulling their children from school. While it may just be your run-of-the mill serial killer, it's too coincidental that they're all from the same school. Additionally,-"

"Jesus Christ,  _another_  child sex ring," I grumble.

Alex looks over at me, clearly concerned. "Um, Ella, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I say quickly, not wanting to open that can of worms.

"Anyways, if you'd be so kind as to stop interrupting me, here at MI6, we don't believe in coincidences."

"Yeah," Alex mumbles pointedly, "Unless they involve international pop stars."

Jones ignores him. "I'm sending you two undercover to investigate the school. You're a little young, but some makeup and the right outfit will age you both a couple years. Alex, you'll be undercover as a 4th grade teacher, and Ella, you'll be undercover as a secretary."

"Wow, Tulip, sexist much?" I ask, "Make the woman be the secretary, why don't you. I want to be a teacher, too."

"We need to have someone stationed near the principal's office," Jones sighs, "Just, please, cooperate with me."

" _You_  want  _me_  to work for you, Tulip," I remind her, "I'll sit down and shut up for the rest of your little spiel, as long as I can help with Alex and my covers. I always did back at the, um, my former occupation, and I was damn good at it." I lift my eyebrows up, daring her to say no.

Mrs. Jones sighs. "Fine, but only if you shut up for the rest of my speech." I nod. This is acceptable to me. Thinking up covers is the most enjoyable part of going on missions.

"What do I get out of this, Mrs. Jones?" Alex asked, innocently, his eyes wide. I laugh, knowing that he's just fucking with her.

"You get a regular paycheck, Alex, now please, let me speak." She takes a deep breath. "You two will be investigating Todd Eldridge and his shady elementary school, and you will be reporting back to us on your findings. We don't know what is going on with these children going missing, but we are determined to figure it out. Any questions?"

"No, ma'am," Alex said, politely.

"Yes. Now that you have  _him_ ," I gesture at Alex, "Do you even need me anymore? Can't Alex just complete this mission while I go back to school?"

Alex snorts and begins cackling. "You really think," he says, wheezing, "That Tulip gives a singular shit about your schooling? When I was 14, I missed more school than I attended because of MI6."

I raise an eyebrow at his statement. Tulip ignores the both of us. "We have a contract, Ella. You signed it."

"Yeah, that's a bullshit contract. I could sic the CIA on your asses. Is that what you want?"

"Wait," Alex interrupts, "You're CIA?" I nod. "Do you know a Mr. Byrne?"

 _Do I know a Mr. Byrne? Hah. The man practically raised me._  "Yeah, I've seen him around," I say, casually, not wanting to draw unwanted attention to myself. I hear Mrs. Jones snort. Obviously, she knows I'm bluffing. "So, anyways Tulip, how would you like to feel the wrath of the entire CIA? I could get them to take you fuckers down, no questions asked. You know who's in charge over there," I say, clearly hinting at my father.

"Yes, Ella," Jones says, coolly, "But what about your suitcase?"  _Suitcase?_

"What do you mean?" I ask, trying not to sound as nervous as I felt.

"You know, that little suitcase that Crawley found under your bed," She smirked.  _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She means the suitcase full of my other identities. I_  need  _to get that back._  "Well, you can refuse to work for us, but we keep the suitcase. If, however, you choose to go to Texas with Alex and complete the mission, it's all yours."

"That is blackmail!" I protest.

"That never stopped Jonesy before," Alex says flippantly.

"Which will it be, Ella?"

 _Fuck._  I have absolutely no choice in this matter, and Jones knows it. I want to wipe that bitchy little smirk off of her stupid face. "Fine," I say, switching into a Southern drawl, "Guess I'll see y'all in Texas."

Jones smiles, pleasantly. "Very well. You have until tomorrow to work with MI6 to develop your and Alex's covers. After that, since you aren't flying to Texas for another three weeks, you two will go up to Wales for more training. Specifically, the Brecon Beacons for SAS training."

"Tulip, what the bloody hell!?" Alex explodes, "That's some Alan Blunt shit right there."

"A great leader," Tulip says, just to spite him. I have absolutely no desire to train with the SAS. I trained with and graduated with the Green Berets, which are sort of the American equivalent of the SAS when I was 16 and 17. It was super illegal, but my asshat dad made me do it, so Mr. Byrne pulled some strings. They aren't exactly the American SAS, but it's the same general idea: Small, specialized teams of soldiers. Anyways, the training sucked, and despite being top of my class, I was looked down upon and harassed due to my age and gender. I need to do my level best to get out of this.

"Tulip, let me remind you, that I set a man on fire because he tried to rape a complete stranger. Just imagine what will happen if I'm the victim," I say, keeping my voice ice-cold and dangerous.

"I'm sure you'll be fine, Ella, you have years of training, and Alex here to protect you." She said, nonchalant.  _HELL. NO._

Alex and I exchange glances as if to decide who should yell at Tulip first. He nods at me, so I begin. "I DON'T NEED A MAN FOR PROTECTION!" I explode, "What I need is to not put myself in middle of another goddamn testosterone-filled army camp. What I need is for you to not disregard my safety and well being. Is that how you treat all of your agents? You literally just discounted my fears of being sexually assaulted, and put the onus of my protection on Alex. You treat him like shit, by the way. Anyways, how can you call yourself a woman when you treat me like that! I cannot believe you. In the CIA, my health and safety were always put first. You call yourself the 'good guys,' but you can't even offer the people you blackmail into working for you the basic feeling of health and safety! This is complete and utter bullshit, Mrs. Jones." I am pissed. This is not okay. Tulip should know as well as I do the struggles of being a young woman in a man's world. You always have to watch your back, because literally everyone is a threat.

"You're right," Mrs. Jones sighs, "That was really insensitive of me. I unfortunately do still have to send you, though, because MI6 legally requires army work before employment."

"First of all, this is blackmail bullshit that we can sweep right under the table. Second of all, I am technically a Green Beret, so I have army experience," I protest.

"British army service, and besides, after the whole Alan Blunt scandal, using underage agents," she clarifies for my benefit, "We have to be completely clear and transparent with the rest of the government." I nod once again.

"So I have no choice in the matter," I sigh. Tulip shakes her head.

"I can, however, give you your own separate sleeping quarters and bathroom," She offers.

"Yes," I agree, "Throw in the video footage of me setting that prick on fire, and the permission to murder anyone who intends to inflict harm on me, and we have a deal."

She raises an eyebrow. "Deal, but try to save murder as a last resort. These men have been vetted, and it is likely that nothing will happen to you. However, your safety is first, because the entire CIA will truly bring down a shitstorm on me if anything happens to you. Use your judgment, Ella."  _Use your judgment. That's the second time I've heard that today…_

"Deal," We shake hands. Alex looks frazzled. "Welcome to womanhood," I say, sarcastically, "It's a wonderful place." He nods submissively, clearly a little scared of my wrath.

* * *

Later that day, I am back in Jones' office with her and Alex, explaining our covers. "Okay, so Alex, your name is Allen Greenwald. Your are 24 years old, and this is your first teaching job. You attended the University of Alabama and worked in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, that's where the college is, for a year as a substitute before landing a job in Texas, and moving to Austin. I am Eloise Greenwald, you're beautiful wife. I'm 23. We met at Alabama when I was a sophomore, and you were a junior, and we've been together ever since. You stayed in Alabama for another year to wait for me to finish up college. We married the summer before my senior year. I applied for and got a job as a secretary at the same elementary school you work at so we could work in close proximity to each other. Oh, and I'm three months pregnant. I've cleared all of this with the CIA, who will have passports ready for us in Washington DC, upon our arrival." I clear my throat. I am very proud of my work. "Any questions?"

"Yes," Alex shifts uncomfortably, "I have a few. First of all, what are sophomores and juniors? Second, why the pregnancy? You're not actually pregnant, right? And anyway, you're cover is super young. Third, Byrne once told me that is was illegal for the CIA to manufacture false passports, so how did you convince him so easily? And last, why the hell did you name me after Alan Blunt?" I chuckle at his naïvety.

"Okay. First, a sophomore is someone in their second year of college, and a junior is someone in their third. I think the terms are only used in America. Anyways, because we are going in as adults, and not innocent children, we need to find another way to be unsuspecting. Who is more unsuspecting than a pregnant woman?"

"Oh my god, that's genius," Alex says, his eyes wide. Jones nods in agreement. I smirk arrogantly.

"Anyways, I'm not pregnant, it will be a fake belly that your Mr. Smithers is going to create. I've already discussed it with him. Also, in the future, it's incredibly rude to ask a woman if she's pregnant. And about my age, have you ever been to the South? People have children really young there. Okay, about the passports, let's just say that I have friends in  _very_  high places, and I wasn't even thinking about Blunt when I named you."

"How did you manage to accomplish that much in four hours?" Jones asks, incredulously, "If the whole college thing doesn't work out, please, apply for a job here."

"I'm okay, thanks though. And I have loads of experience, and again, friends in very high places that will give me anything I may need to be successful," I say, referring to my father and Joe Byrne. It pretty funny to watch Alex's face contort in confusion, trying to figure me out. I swing my feet back on Jones' desk, mainly to confuse Alex even further. It's clear he knows nothing about me. To him, I'm just arrogant little Ella Cornell who has strong friends at the CIA. Although, I know next to nothing about him, too. An aura of mystery surrounds him, and I am desperate to learn more.

Jones just sighs. I seem to have that effect on her. "Okay, agents, go home. It's late, and you have a big day ahead of you. Wait, Ella, before I forget," says, handing me a flash drive, "Here are the video clips you requested."

"Thanks. And one more thing, can you drive me back to Oxford? That's technically where I live. All of my stuff is up there."

"No matter, Crawley will take you up tomorrow. That's where your flight to Wales leaves from," She assures me.  _That's great, but where the hell am I supposed to sleep tonight?_

I voice my thoughts out loud. "Okay, but where am I supposed to sleep tonight?"

She thinks for a second, before an evil grin forms on her face. "Why, I'm sure your husband, Allen, would just love to have you over for the night."

 _The fuck?_  "No, no, it's okay, if you could just give me some cash for a hotel, that would be great. I really don't want to intrude."

"No, no, you guys should get to know each other before your mission," Jones insists.

"Alex?" I ask, feeling really weird about the whole situation.

"Fine by me," he sighs, "But you have to sleep on the coach, and no blowing things up." I nod. This is fine by me. I do try not to blow things up. Not without good reason, anyways.

* * *

We leave the Royal and General together. He walks quickly past the front entrance and doesn't stop until we've turned the corner. "So," I announce, "What do you want to do for dinner? I haven't eaten since breakfast yesterday." I pull two 20£ bills out of a stick of chapstick that's in my pocket. "I'm buying," I offer. I wish had had more money on me, I usually do, and if I had brought more, I could have paid for a hotel room. There's no way I could find a hotel room in Central London for this cheap. Alex leads me into a pizza place, about three blocks down the road. We sit down and split a pizza. I haven't eaten in a very long time, and the food tastes amazing to me.

* * *

When we arrive at his house, I am surprised that I recognize it.  _Duh! Rider! I keep forgetting his namesake!_  He opens the door and leads me to a couch in his living room. I sit down. "Do you live alone?" I ask. There is not a soul in sight.

"No, I live with my housekeeper, Jack. Right now, she's at her boyfriend's place," Alex makes a face.

"I guessing you don't like the boyfriend?" Alex laughs and shakes his head.

"So, I really know nothing about you, Ella Cornell, yet you seem to know loads about me," Alex says, changing the subject.

"Well Alex Rider, I only know that you are the child agent who has worked for '6 for the past four years. Oh, and that you live in Chelsea," I say, truthfully.

"Really?" He asks, lifting an eyebrow in disbelief, "You seem to know more than you're letting on."

I give him a wide, toothy grin. "I worked for the CIA. You expect me to be transparent with you?"

Alex laughs, good-naturedly. "That's true. How long were you with the CIA anyway?"

I feel weird about sharing any personal information with Alex. He seems nice enough, and we are incredibly similar, but after this mission, I'll probably never see him again, and any incriminating evidence shared could prove to be dangerous. "Long enough to know my way around, but not long enough to be in charge,"I say, avoiding the question.

"Come on," Alex urges me, "You know how long I've been with Manipulating the Innocent '6. Just give me a time frame."

I laugh at his nickname for MI6. "Ouch. Don't say that around Jones-y. She'll send you to some hellhole or another." I skillfully dodge his question once again.

"Yeah. Probably." He pauses. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

I shake my head. "Classified." The one thing that Byrne and my dad drilled into my head since I was about 5, was to never tell anyone how long I've been working for them. America has incredibly strict child labor laws, and since our current president is itching for a reason to shut us down, this would end the organization, since they so blatantly broke them with me.

Alex shrugs, unsurprised. "I figured. I know what it's like to be the government's dirty little secret."

I laugh at this, "You know, Alex, we're probably the only ones in the world who can say that."

He considers this. "Yeah, I guess so. Unless other governments are actually able to keep their mouths shut about their child agents. The whole intelligence world knows about me."

"The CIA never ran their mouths about me. They never wanted to bring attention to the fact they were employing a minor. '6 just bragged about you to the entire world. Besides, from what I've heard about you, you're the type to just blow shit up when it suits you. It's a lot easier to cover up a few people "spontaneously" dying than say, the Prime Minister being shot at on live television, or Air Force One being completely destroyed at Heathrow," Alex's eyes widen when I mention his missions. Joe gave me a file, a thin one, granted, on him before I left for Oxford. It didn't say much, but there were details of a few of his missions, "The CIA lost their shit over that, by the way, what exactly happened?"

"Wait, what? Hold up. MI6 bragged about me? Also, blowing shit up is maybe the only enjoyable part of being forced to risk your life for a government you detest. How do you know about my missions?" Alex looked, understandably, confused.

"I asked you a question first." I really didn't feel like pulling some bullshit answer out of my ass, so I just changed the subject.

Alex sighed. "What I need to know is more important. Answer me, and I'll answer you." I raised an eyebrow, and looked him dead in the eyes, letting him know who was in charge. We sat that way for another minute before he finally broke. "Ah!" He exclaimed, "Fine! A former pop singer stole the plane and was planning to blow up half the earth. I stopped him, and the plane crashed. Now you tell me what I want to know."

"Damian Cray," I say slowly. I see Alex try to repress a shudder.

"How-"

"You know," I draw out, interrupting him, "Damian Cray isn't the only legend the world lost that day," Alex raises an eyebrow, confused, "Yassen Gregorovich," I say in a Russian accent, "One of the greatest assassins the intelligence agencies have ever known." Alex looks completely dumbfounded. His mouth is literally hanging open, and his eyes are wide. "What," I smirk, "Did you really expect the CIA not to hear about the death of  _Yassen Gregorovich_? It happened on American property. He was one of the greatest assassins Scorpia ever had. But you know that."

"Well,  _obviously_  you knew about it," Alex stammers. He is clearly having trouble forming a coherent thought, but who could really blame him? "But why?"

"Why, what?"

"Why would you bring him up?"

"I'm just messing with you, calm down. I saw the plane's security footage, and I wanted to know what he said to you. I've met him, you know, he was a  _lovely_  man."

"What?" Alex exclaims, "You can't just drop a bombshell like that. And he didn't  _say_  anything to me, it was just nonsense. The man was bloody dying, for God's sake." I am fairly certain that Alex is lying, but I don't press him on the issue. He looks pretty uncomfortable.

"Okay," I say convincingly, "New subject. If Yassen didn't say anything to you, why do you walk just like him? I can  _see_  Malagosto in your stride." I know I'm pressing him, but Alex honestly fascinates me. He is a puzzle. A puzzle I want nothing more than to solve.

"Nope. Not that. New subject," Alex is clearly uncomfortable. I, of all people, know how it feels to not want to talk about things from my past, so I respect Alex's privacy and don't press him on the issue.

"Fine then. You choose."

"Okay," Alex says. I can see him processing a lifetime of data in the course of about a second. He has a very analytical mind, I can tell. Finally, he speaks again: "If you've been working for the CIA for so long, then why did they recruit  _me_  on two separate missions? Why didn't they just send you?"

"How would I even know about your missions?" I ask, innocently, as if I hadn't just read the CIA's file of him. While it is lacking on his other missions, the CIA ones were thoroughly described.

Alex looks me in the eyes, unamused. "You seem to know lots of things."

"Yeah, true," I say, deciding to give in, "You were recruited for the space hotel nightmare because you were close with Drevin and his son. It logistically made more sense to assign the spy who already knew the family rather than sending me undercover as well."

"Yeah, that's logical, but what about Skeleton Key?"

"Everyone's favorite clusterfuck," I laugh, mainly because these are Byrne's words, not mine, "Troy and Carver were good agents, though they did everything by the book."

"Yeah," Alex remembers, "They never took any chances…"

"Which is what being a spy is," I interrupt, finishing his sentence. "Anyways, I was on another mission then. I was sent out like a week before Byrne got the intel on Sarov, so he needed another child agent. Logistically, he could have sent one of my siblings, I guess, but two of them were pretty young, not that that stopped them from sending me away; one was an adult at that point, so they were too old; and the last, though they are damn good at coding, is a terrible field agent. Byrne would have sent me, but I was in Europe then on a separate mission."

Alex nods, accepting this. "Wait, you have  _how_  many siblings?"

"Four. I'm the middle child."

"Wild. I'm the only one."

"Yeah, when my dad wasn't out in the field, he was impregnating my mother," I remark.

An amused look crosses Alex's face. "So what exactly are you doing in England?"

"Well, I applied to college here to get away from my fucked-up family and the CIA. However, 18 hours later I'm mixed up with another manipulative intelligence agency."

"Gross," Alex sighs, "Yeah, MI6 fucking suck."

"Yeah, but they're not as bad as the CIA."

"I disagree. Byrne is certainly no Blunt."

"Yeah, that's true. Byrne is fine, really. It's my dad who I just can't fucking stand. He's been manipulating me for years to go on missions. I hate him, and he's the reason I left. 'Oh, Ella, it's just one little mission, hardly worth your skills and intelligence,' 'Oh, Ella, we need a child for this, and none of your siblings are good enough, so it  _has_  to be you,'" I mimic, "Seriously. My own father manipulated me into risking my life, and then sent downright incompetent backup because he's a fucking prick."

Alex sighs, knowingly. I know he's been manipulated too, but at least he was older than 5. "I'm sorry, Ella. I hated Blunt, but at least I didn't have to live with him."

"Yeah, it sucks. You know, I kind of hate my country. I know as an American I'm supposed to be extremely patriotic and loyal to America and love the government or whatever bullshit, but I've really grown to hate it. That fucking government has been manipulating me since I was a child and I'm expected to love them? There are few things I hate more than the American flag and those who govern it. Seriously, it's awful. These pricks can force me to work for them, but I can't even vote them the fuck out! As a minor, I can risk my life for that country, but I can't vote whose in charge of it? That is complete and utter bullshit. Also, our government has gone to shit recently. Ever since the Orange in Chief has been elected, people are being fired and hired too fast to keep track of. It sucks. He's an incompetent, privileged piece of shit. Now, not only do I hate the shadiness of the government, but I also hate the people who run it."

"The Orange in Chief?" Alex questions, looking puzzled.

"Trump," I clarify, "He's such a cunt. And I know that CIA operatives are supposed to be apolitical, but that rule can fuck off."

Alex laughs. "Yeah, it's incredible that we're expected to love the governments who force us to risk our lives for things we don't believe in."

I nod in agreement. Alex really gets it. He's not a bad guy at all. I yawn because I've barely slept after switching time zones. Alex laughs. "We should probably get some sleep."

I nod again, my eyes heavy with sleep. "Mind if I shower first?"

"No, go ahead, you can use Jack's shower."

* * *

A few minutes later, I'm standing in the shower, trying to figure out the water. Honestly, you'd think with the amount I've traveled, I'd be able to figure out showers by now, but unfortunately, that is not the case.

I finally get the water on. The showerhead spits a stream of freezing cold water directly at my face. My breathing rate picks up. Faster and faster. I'm hyperventilating. There are black spots in my eyes. Memories come flooding back. I scream as loud as I can. I fall to my knees. My breathing gets faster. Water continues to fall on my face. I can't do this. My vision gets spottier. The darkness is taking over my eyes. Memories. Nightmares. Water. I can't see. I can't move. I can't-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, what do you think happened to Ella?
> 
> Wow, it has really been forever since I've posted. I've been insanely busy with school, SATs, Science Olympiad, and the Big Bang. This will probably continue to about late May or early June. I honestly don't know when the next chapter will be out, but probably not anytime soon. Thanks to everyone who has continued to stick around, you guys are great! Please, leave a review, because it really makes my day when someone takes the time to do so.


	10. Announcement

Hey! This is a quick message to all of my readers-

You guys are great! Thank you so much for taking the time to read and review  _I Spy_ ; it really means the world to me that people like my writing enough to take time out of their days to read.

Unfortunately, I will be taking a break from posting new  _I Spy_  chapters for awhile. I am incredibly busy with classes, homework, and Science Olympiad stuff, and writing fic, though I love it, is simply not a priority right now. I am still writing for the Big Bang, so be on the lookout for a new fic in January!

More on  _I Spy_ : There won't be any more updates until the summer, likely not until July. I am going to rewrite the chapters I already have, because I don't love the direction the story is currently going in, as well as stock up on a bunch more, so I can post periodically throughout the next school year.

I just wanted you all to know that I'm not abandoning you or my story, I just need to focus on other things right now. PM is always open, however, so if you need anything, just message me, and I'll definitely respond.

Happy Hanukkah/Merry Christmas/Happy New Year/Have a great holiday season, whatever you celebrate!

Love,

flowersforzoe


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